A Future We Would Make Ourselves
by littlelights
Summary: Protégé. Friend. Orphan. Cup bearer. Pain in The Ass. No One. Arya Stark has been many things to many people. Reunited with her sister in Winterfell and readying for war with the Night King, she finds herself unexpectedly at odds with her own emotions when Gendry walks back into her life. Arya/Gendry & Jon/Sansa fic set in Season 7 and 8. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

A Future We Would Make Ourselves

By littlelights

Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.

Chapter One

He should have been dead.

When the Red Woman had taken Gendry Waters away from the Brotherhood without Banners, Arya had thought he was being led to his death. She'd mourned him in the only way someone so young and traumatized by war and loss could. She didn't cry, she lashed out with anger and then silence. The tears she should have shed filled up her insides like water in a cup. When her heart filled up, the grief and loss turned it to stone. The lack of feeling in her chest had saved her when she became apprenticed at the House of Faces and became No One. It protected and fueled her when she made the long journey back to Westeros and sliced Walter Frey's throat open and freed her Uncle Edmure from his prison. Her stone heart had impressed the seven hells out of the Brotherhood without Banners, and together they hunted down the rest of the Frey and Lannister forces in the Riverlands, slaughtering those they could find. She killed them all with a merry song in her heart and a smile on her face.

Then Nymeria returned, and her rock-like heart began crack. Arya's big, beautiful, Direwolf had found her in the Riverlands, leading a pack of wolves on a crusade of blood and survival. When they met again, Nymeria had licked her hand, a rare gesture of outward affection, and Arya sunk to her knees in gratitude, embracing the direwolf by the neck. Tears came. The hot emotions of her childhood came rushing back. The stone in her heart dissolving under the pressure of an emotional waterfall. Tears for the years they'd been parted. Tears for her father, her brothers, her mother. Tears for the life she'd had before King Robert had arrived in Winterfell. Tears for a happy and stable childhood lost forever. The realization of the people she'd lost and their importance in her life. The name of one dark-haired young man never fell from her lips but it ran through her mind later that evening, when she'd recovered and fell asleep by the fire with Nymeria at her side.

Gendry Waters. Her friend. Not a friendship borne of childhood innocence like Mica, but a friendship forged in the embers of survival over precarious odds. Father had always said you find your true friends on the battlefield, and the precarious years between her father's death and her arrival back at Winterfell had been a constant string of war and struggle. She and Gendry had kept each other safe, protected each other's secrets, took turns saving each other's lives. He had been family, back before her body and mind would have processed what she felt as something more than brotherly love. She thought he was long dead.

The raven carrying Jon's note from Dragonstone stated otherwise.

They were in Sansa's solar, reviewing messages received by riders and ravens of the day. On the table, accounts of inventories, supplies, and finances were waiting for review. Reunited with her sister, in their childhood home, they worked side by side reviewing figures and making plans. It struck her how they were both different people now. Gone were the petty competitions and foibles of their youth. The anger was gone. Forgiveness had been asked and freely given. Where there had once been distaste there was now pride and admiration for each other. They tackled the work their father, mother, and Maester Luwin would have done, and it humbled her. It was a strange way to spend her time, cooped up with ink and piles of parchment, but she welcomed the work. Neither of them had much experience with such responsibilities. They pressed ahead anyway. The raven from Jon had a been a brief respite from the columns of numbers and lists of supplies needed for the war ahead.

Sansa read the scroll first, scanning for news of Jon's return. She looked at Arya, handed her the paper, stating simply, "This is for you." Her brother's handwriting, a flow of neat and precise words tumbled from the page. It took less than a minute to read it, and longer for the words to sink in.

 _Gendry Waters is here at Dragonstone. He claims to be the baseborn son of Robert Baratheon. Ser Davos supports his case, stating Waters was nearly burned alive by Stannis and the Red Priestess as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light. He carries the king's war hammer as proof of his lineage. He pledged himself to the Queen, and asks to be legitimized. Queen Daenerys is considering him heir to Storm's End. He requests news of Arya, as he says he traveled with her after her escape from King's Landing._

Gendry was alive. Or someone pretending to be him was alive. She wasn't sure she could trust the flicker of hope which suddenly sprung to life in her chest. 'Valar Dohaeris' the pragmatic side of her mind spat. But that stubborn little flame of hope wouldn't be extinguished. He may be alive. Alive and revolving in the same spheres as her brother.

Sansa looked at her expectantly, those powerful blue eyes reflecting a maturity and gravity Arya had never seen when they were younger. Those eyes reminded her a bit of their mother, but where Catelyn Stark's fierceness had been fixated on properness and adherence to duty, Sansa's bore the sharpness of strength born from sorrow.

Arya met her gaze, unflinching and open. "I'll send something."

What 'something' was, Arya hadn't quite formulated yet. How does one respond to the inquiries of a dead man? Then it came in a rush of words. Memories of a moment, known by only three people in the world: an armorer's apprentice, a lost girl, and a baker's boy. Arya dipped her quill in ink and scratched out a response.

 _If he can tell you the name of the Flea Bottom baker and the bread he made for me, the man is Gendry Waters. Missing Old Nan's cooking and Nymeria. I am well. Please come home soon._

Jon would understand the answers to her question lay in the references to Old Nan's warm kidney pies and her own direwolf. To anyone else, it was an idle line of small talk to her brother.

"Do you think it's him? What did you tell Jon?" Sansa asked. Her voice and expression held no judgement, just curiosity and warm concern.

Arya stamped the Stark seal on the message and blew on the wax softly. "I told him everything he needs to find out the truth."

Sansa reached across the table to gently squeeze Arya's hand. A gesture of support and trust. Arya met her gaze, and squeezed back. It had taken time to build a rapport and a feeling of family when they'd been at each other's throats when they were younger. Jon had said they needed to trust each other if they were going to survive the long night ahead. When they were first reunited, she and her sister had spent evenings together, awkwardly sharing stories of their years spent apart. The lighthearted moments were the easiest to share first. The darkest times were glossed over, if they were acknowledged at all. Her time with Gendry had been brought to light when she and Sansa discussed news of Lady Melisandre. Sansa had agreed he'd probably been put to the torch for Lord Stannis' bid for the Iron Throne, just like little Shireen Baratheon.

"I hope it's your friend." Sansa said softly. "Apparently, he's concerned for you."

"I missed him too." Arya replied. She didn't speak of her hope that Gendry was alive. She couldn't elaborate on what it would mean, or what would happen in the future. Those were words for another time, when Jon could confirm Gendry's status in his next letter. "I need to send this right away."

Sansa smiled, and sat back in her chair. "I'll take care of these if you want to go." Her eyes swept to the papers still stacked on the table.

Arya rose from her seat, turning out of the room, down the hallway and up the stairs to the raven tower. She didn't run, although she wanted to. Her fingers didn't fumble when she attached the letter to the raven's leg, but they trembled a little when she released the bird up into the air. She didn't cry when the raven soared with the wind toward Dragonstone, but she did feel wetness on her eyelashes.

She could see Gendry in her mind, sitting next to him on the road to Castle Black, sharing what food they had for dinner. Memories of him working away in the forge of Harrenhal, muscles straining and gaze focused. The happy and relieved smile he gave her each evening after Lord Tywin dismissed her from her duties. The rush of running away with him and their friend to freedom. Standing side by side together as equals, ready to confront whatever lay ahead of them. The pain and betrayal on his face when he was sold like a lamb to slaughter to the Red Priestess.

Seven hells, it still hurt.

Arya Stark closed her eyes. She didn't pray to any of the Old Gods, The Seven, or the Many-Faced God anymore. The voice of her beloved dancing master Syrio Forel echoed in her ears. Dear Syrio, she still missed her first teacher. 'There was only one God, and his name is Death. What do we say to the God of Death?'

"Not today," she whispered, and her words floated like a wish into the air.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

Chapter Two

Gendry's experience of highborns was the same as most other smallfolk. Keep your head down, pay the proper respect, and maybe you won't be cuffed over the head. As an armorer's apprentice, he'd hadn't had much experience talking with the customers, and that had been a small relief. It was hard enough walking through the streets of Flea Bottom, weighed down by the laws and customs of the powerful rulers of the city. Westeros may not have had slavery, but the poor felt the weight of servitude none the less. There was little respite for it. The taverns, alleys, and brothels may have been an escape, but they were expensive and few folk could afford to go there often. He'd figured he'd probably be in Flea Bottom his whole life.

But here he was, sitting at a table with The Onion knight and the King in the North. Gendry had learned long ago to accept the surreal turns his life and focus on ways to creating something better for himself. He may have been intimidated by highborns, but no longer. So many of them had died in the wars, the old power structures were falling. The world, once so ridged and cold, suddenly seemed open.

Admittedly, he was slightly intimidated by the dark haired and moody Lord Jon Snow, King of the North at the moment. When they first met, Gendry admired him more for being born a bastard like him. Right now, deference wasn't the reason he was intimidated. Not because Jon Snow was a bastard turned king, but because of the connection to his sister, Arya Stark.

Quick witted, stubbornly brave, free-spirited, Arya Stark.

Gendry needed to know if she was alright.

Gendry and Ser Davos Seaworth had exchanged a few pleasantries, while Jon Snow reached in his pocket to retrieve a new message in his pocket, sealed with the sigil of House Stark. There wasn't a lot to say, really. Lord Snow had been forthcoming about his sister's whereabouts when they met a week ago. Gendry wasn't sure what had been written in the first letter, he couldn't read after all, but Jon Snow opened the message determinedly and began to read it.

"Is it from Arya, m'lord?" The habit of withholding Arya's title had been instilled in him so long, he quickly amended, "Lady Arya, m'lord."

Jon looked up from the letter to meet his eyes, and proceeded to read aloud.

 _If he can tell you the name of the Flea Bottom baker and the bread he made for me, the man is Gendry Waters. Missing Old Nan's cooking and Nymeria. I am well. Please come home soon._

"What's your answer, my lord?" Lord Snow asked. His face was impassive, and voice insistent. Gendry stole a glance at Ser Davos, the Onion Knight's countenance matching those of his liege lord.

Of course, Arya would want proof it was him. She would have thought he was dead, and he would have been if Lord Stannis and the Red Priestess followed through on their plans. He remembered that parting of ways, the armorer's apprentice, a noble born girl, and a baker's boy. It had been a farewell conversation between just the three of them.

The answer poured confidently from his lips. "The baker, his name is Hot Pie. He traveled with Arya and me north with the Knights Watch, then to Harrenhall. He was sold to an inn keeper in the Riverlands by the Brotherhood without Banners. Before we left, Hot Pie made Arya a loaf of bread, shaped like a wolf - a direwolf. She didn't know what it was for a moment. I had to tell her. But it had the legs, head and everything. Bad tail though."

Ser Davos smiled faintly. "Hot Pie. Now that's a proper Flea Bottom name."

Jon Snow seemed to grin from one side of his mouth. He'd seen the answers hidden in his sister's letter. Clever little Arya. The one sibling left alive from his youth who treated him like a brother and not a bastard. If circumstances had been different, Jon would have ridden home for Winterfell as soon as he'd received Sansa's letter announcing Arya's arrival. The details had been vague, other than she was well and had been reunited with Nymeria in the Riverlands.

Jon was lost in his musings for a moment longer, re-reading the letter and the assurance his sisters were safe at home.

"She writes that she's well, and adds 'please come home soon.'"

Feeling a bit deflated, Gendry quipped "Well, she probably thought I was dead. What do you put in a letter to a dead man?" Gendry couldn't blame her. Being sold to a Red Priestess wasn't a good indicator of a pleasant outcome. Not that his life had been terribly pleasant overall.

Lord Snow extended the letter to him for a better look. Taking the letter in hand Gendry examined the words, wishing for the first time in a long time that he could read them for himself. The writing seemed clear, no blotches or smudges. Larger curves of ink giving way to a few large letters. Not much to read really. But if he could read it himself, he would have been able to hear her voice read them aloud.

She was alive, and well. Thank the Gods.

He was aware how holding the letter for much longer would look strange, he extended the paper back to its owner. "Thank you, m'lord. Will you tell her I hope to see her when we march north?"

"Why don't you write her, and tell her yourself? I'd have no objection to that." Lord Snow suggested.

Gendry never felt shame for being lowborn. It had been a fact of life, and he couldn't change it. No more than he could change his eye color or his resemblance to the dead King Robert. Now that everything had changed, being legitimized by the Dragon Queen and spending time with men who had proper book learning, his lack of education was glaringly apparent.

"I can't read or write, m'lord." Gendry said simply. "And besides, I wouldn't know what to say." Besides, what could he say to her after all these years, especially when he'd hurt her during their last conversation together?

"I can be your family," she had said near the end. Her grey eyes pleading 'Please stay with me. Please don't leave me,' when her voice would not. She'd grown too tough to cry outright at his words.

He thought he was letting her go gently while being true to himself. Staying with the Brotherhood and serving Lord Beric in a place where he could work for good man with a higher calling. His upbringing of paying deference to his betters inspired his decision. Arya would go back to her mother, and brother. She'd be a lady of Winterfell again. Her family would never allow her to interact with a tradesman in a familiar manner.

His expression and voice had been slightly sad, and matter of fact, "You wouldn't be my family. You'd be m'lady."

Yes, he was a right bastard for that. No wonder she'd barely written anything.

Gendry shrugged, and rose from his chair. "Thank you, m'lord. I'll see you in the training yard." Nodding his goodbyes to both men, he left the room toward the forges. He'd been charged with designing and forging new weapons for the war ahead. The new maester from the Night's Watch was arriving soon with what he claimed to be details of making Valyrian steel swords. Gendry would believe that horse shite when he saw it.

An apprentice at the forge had prepared a workspace and was already working on a pile of weapons to be repaired. Gendry stripped off his leathers, donning a light shirt for working so close to the heat and flame of the fire. Shards of Dragonglass were laying on his workbench. He had an idea of making uniform dragonglass arrow heads quickly and efficiently. Now all he had to do was come up with how. Melt the glass down and place it in molds? Hammer equal sizes like a stone mason?

Gendry attempted the second idea of hammering sizes by using different tools and techniques. It wasn't working well. He must have been hammering a long time, when he looked up the last watch of the day was filing inside to have dinner. Gendry ignored them, preferring to drown his disappointments in work. Concentrating on work kept his mind off other things. Other things and one Stark girl. She probably wasn't a girl anymore, now that he thought about it. When he looked up, he saw Ser Davos Seaworth walking through the yard holding two mugs of ale.

"I see you haven't had your supper," the older man said when he walked into the forge.

"Don't feel like it." Gendry replied. He accepted the ale with a grin. "But this, I'll take."

"Good lad," his companion replied. They clinked tankards. "It's not a bowl of brown, but it's good for what ails ya."

"Yeah," Gendry agreed, "A good ale keeps ya going."

Gendry drank deeply from is mug. He like Ser Davos, and owed the older man his life. When he rowed away from Dragonstone in that little boat, he'd been grateful to the Onion Knight. Here they were again; two boys from Flea Bottom the castle of the Dragon Queen. No one he'd known in King's Landing would have believed it.

"How goes it then," Ser Davos asked, glancing around the forge and pointing to the dragonglass shards. Gendry showed him a few arrow head pieces, as well as some of his glass mold ideas. The knight looked thoughtful, injecting questions into the mix until their conversation moved from forge work to other topics. Ser Davos had that effect on people. He was a good listener, and could steer a conversation as masterfully as he could a smuggling sloop.

"Are you going to write to Lady Arya?" Ser Davos asked, taking another drink and looking at the armorer expectantly. "She will probably want to hear more from you now that she knows you're alive and working with her brother."

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Gendry said with a shrug. "Can't read or write. Need both to send her a letter."

"I could help you out there," Davos said. "I couldn't read or write myself when I served Lord Stannis. I thought I could get by. When I learned how to read, it saved my life when I served as Hand to the King."

The knight's service as Hand of the King had been a dark, unhappy time of his life. Watching a man he respected slide deeper into his obsession to win the Iron Throne at any price had been almost unbearable to watch. Ser Davos spoke of it rarely to anyone he knew well or otherwise.

"You taught yourself?" Gendry asked.

"Gods, no." Ser Davos lowered his mug. The older man's eyes drifted away then, seeing something from his memory which seemed sad. "No, I learned to read when I was locked up in Dragonstone."

"Stannis tossed you in the dungeon?" The idea was shocking. A man, as loyal to his liege lord as the Onion Knight, locked up at Dragonstone. "What for?"

The knight chuckled. "I counseled Stannis against bringing the Red Priestess with him during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. I slighted her, and he took it badly. Called me a traitor and locked me up. He nearly had me executed when I went behind his back again and set you free."

Gendry was floored. When he rowed away, he hadn't stopped long enough to ask what would happen to Ser Davos. He'd always assumed the older man would be fine, blaming the escape on a sleeping guardsman. Gendry shook his head, "I am so sorry -."

"Don't be," Ser Davos interrupted. "I'd do it again. I learned to read in those dungeons, and it's made me a better man for it. I had to be imprisoned to get an education. And my teacher wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Who was your teacher then?"

"Your cousin, the Princess Shireen." The knight's words stopped. His eyes saddened, and it made the forge feel colder with their grief.

Gendry had heard some of the men talking about the little princess, burned to death as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light. How her father looked on with acceptance, and how her screams broke the hearts of the men who watched. The death of an innocent girl hurt Lord Stannis' cause in the end. His wife hung herself, and many of the men deserted. The beginning of the end for King Stannis Baratheon.

"She was a good teacher," Ser Davos continued, his voice growing richer in remembrance. "Stubborn, like you. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I told her 'no' time and time again, and she found a way around every argument. I asked her to think of what would happen if she were caught, and she said 'What will they do, lock us in a cell?' The bravery of that girl."

Gendry mirrored his smile. It had seemed tragic to him how the one relation he would have wanted to meet, and who would have wanted to meet him in return, was dead. He wished now he could have seen her, even if it was through the bars of a cell. She sounded brave and kind, and more than a little like Arya.

"So, my cousin Shireen, she would have liked teaching me?" Gendry asked.

The knight took another swig of ale, met the younger man's eyes and smiled a bit. "I don't think anyone could have stopped her. She even taught a few of the wildlings how to read up at Castle Black. She was a good soul, kind and patient."

The temperature was dropping again, this time not from the sadness in the room, but from the winter winds kicking up outside. Ser Davos finished the rest of his ale, and clapped his hand on Gendry's shoulder.

"Go on, grab your stuff. We'll head inside for your first lesson."

"What?" Gendry grimaced as he choked on the ruminates of ale in his mug. "You're going to teach me to read?"

"Yeah," the knight replied. "It'll be fun."

The armorer gestured to the forge still warm from the coals. "There's a war on, and I have work to do."

Ser Davos wasn't leaving any room for discussion. He reached over and picked up Gendry's leathers. "It's easy," he said, remembering how it hadn't seemed easy at the time. "You're younger than me when I learned. You'll pick up fast."

"I wouldn't know where to start," Gendry protested.

Ser Davos rolled his eyes. "You Baratheons are a stubborn lot. You know the story of Ageon the Conqueror?" Gendry shook his head yes. "Good, we'll start with 'Aegon' and work our way from there."

Reading? Writing? If it wasn't too late for the Onion Knight to learn, then maybe it would be a good thing for Gendry to learn too. He thought of little Princess Shireen, teaching the older man to read in the thin light of a dungeon.

The two men walked through the castle and up the stairs to the library, where Ser Davos retrieved what he said was _A History of Aegon the Conqueror_. Placing the book on a table with several candles, the knight gestured to the chairs. "Let's start at the beginning, shall we?"

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	3. Chapter 3

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Chapter Three**

Gendry's first letter arrived by raven to Winterfell a month later. Just a few lines, black ink on dull parchment, protected by a wax seal of a stag and a hammer. The script was choppy, and uneven, much like a child's first words, and contained little in the way of real information

 _I am learning to read and have a good teacher. I am reading the History of Aegon Targaryen. The dragons here at the castle are bigger than the ones in the books. I hope you are safe and well at home. Gendry Baratheon_

Arya smiled when she read the letter, grateful to see proof of what her brother had written separately.

 _Ser Davos is teaching Gendry Baratheon to read and write. He spends all day at the forge and evenings in the library. I admire his persistence and talents. We need a few hundred more men like him._

Jon wrote longer missives once every two weeks. Gendry's letters, on the other hand, were short and not terribly consistent. Just few sentences and his name. It probably took quite a bit of time to write them.

 _The dragonglass arrows are nearly finished..._

 _I am working on a new weapon..._

Each time a raven arrived with a message, something gnawed at her gut, giving her the feeling he was always holding words back. Gendry had never been overly chatty like her friend Hot Pie, but with each letter she received came the sensation of invisible words unsaid. Maybe he didn't know how to write words to what he wanted to convey. The latest letter found a way into her heart and gripped it tightly.

 _I am sitting on the Queen's war council. We are heading north soon. I wish to see you at your home in Winterfell. Gendry Baratheon_

He'd be at Winterfell? She didn't know quite what to feel. She'd ran to Braavos to escape being Arya Stark and nearly lost her life. Now that she'd accepted who she was, and was slowly confronting the pain of her past, Arya wondered what she would do when she saw Gendry again. And she'd find out soon enough.

Dragonstone. A castle of grey rock surrounded by sea. Gendry had rowed away from this place several years ago and hoped he would never come back. Time and fate, it seemed, had a way of bringing you back to the one place you damn well never wanted to be.

But the castle felt different now that Queen Daenerys held residence and court in the old Targaryen stronghold. She seemed to possess the grace and wisdom of a true queen, and her men were completely devoted to her. It was a vast improvement from his uncle's style of ruling.

Even after all the months of working forges and living day to day in the keep, he still wasn't overly fond of the place. The memories of his first visit to the castle were raw and uncomfortable, and it had nearly cost him his life. It was easy to put his discomfort side when he worked, he'd learned to do that well enough at Harrenhal, but it was getting harder to sleep at night. The shadows of the place made him uncomfortable.

Gendry walked the long corridor to the throne room clutching his newest creation in front of him. The Valerian Steel sword in his hands had been hammered to perfection and housed in a fine leather sheath. After all the work at the forge, it was done. Hopefully, there would be many more like it.

He met Ser Davos in the hallway before he'd walked into the throne room. The old smuggler had seen what Gendry was carrying. Grinning broadly, he clapped him firmly on the back. "Well done, lad," Ser Davos said. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it being made with my own eyes."

"I still don't see why I can't just hand it over to Grey Worm and be done with it," Gendry growled a bit. "I'm not one for ceremony."

"You may not like the attention, but it's necessary." Ser Davos admonished as they turned and walked the rest of the way to their destination. "You're the first person in a thousand years to do the impossible. You should be proud."

"I'm proud enough to be finished with this one and move on to the next," the younger man bit back. "Need more of these if we want to win the war, and they're not going to forge themselves."

They entered the room together as they often had when arriving for meetings and council. The queen was seated with her advisors and allies around her. People he knew better now for his work on the war council. Lord Tyrion, Hand of the Queen, Grey Worm, Missandei, Lord Verys, Jon Snow, Ser Davos, and the wildling leader Tormund. The presence of these few people bolstered his confidence.

"Master Baratheon," the queen's voice floated above the talking in the room. "I imagine you have news from your forge."

All eyes in the room turned to him. Gendry stopped a respectful distance from the Dragon Queen's stone throne. "I do, y'grace."

He held the sword ceremoniously in his hands. Time stopped for a moment. He could tell how a man would use a sword before it was ever held in his hands. Good men appreciated a well forged sword like a work of art. To others, it was a tool interchangeable with any other. The worst were men those whose eyes lit up with a mixture of blood lust and eagerness, as if they couldn't wait to deliver death with a swift stroke. The serenity of Queen Daenerys' face was altogether different. The light in her eyes gleamed not with a taste for death, but with the radiance of hopeful anticipation, as if this sword and many others like it, would save the world.

"You may approach," the queen invited.

The gravity in the room suddenly felt heavy on his body. Gendry walked the few steps to the throne, bent one knee, and offered the sword to the queen. She accepted it with graceful hands, savoring a moment before unsheathing it for all in the room to see.

"A sword for you, y'grace. Newly forged for you from Valerian steel." Gendry stood, and walked backwards a few steps away. He suddenly had trouble thinking of words to say, so he described the sword the way he heard Master Mott would to a wealthy customer. "It's not made from older swords, it's entirely new."

The queen stood from her throne and unsheathed the sword fully from its casing. The sword gave a light 'ting' as it was freed. She extended her sword arm fully. "It's so light." She said with satisfaction.

"Y'grace may not be overly familiar with swords, but this one is stronger and lighter than all others," Gendry continued. "You can see the ripple pattern in the blade there. It won't ever rust, and you'll never need to hone it. It'll serve you well in the war to come."

The smile on the queen's face was one of confidence and triumph. "I suppose you could make another just like it?" She asked, switching the sword to her other hand.

"Aye, y'grace." Gendry affirmed. "Got a few lads with me who can help with the work. With some more armorers we can make more than one at a time. Smaller blades could be useful too, good for throwing or close combat. Could make arrowheads of Valerian steel with smithy molds instead of cutting dragonglass. Or use both, if we need to."

The queen held the sword in both hands, marveling at its newness. She said nothing, but Gendry could see she was thinking of the swords they would need and how soon he could produce them.

"If we could find ten or fifteen more armorers and a few smiths, the work would go a lot quicker." Gendry supplied without invitation. "Double the work crew, we could work day and night wherever we were, if we can get the supplies we needed."

"Sounds like you wouldn't be getting much rest." The queen quipped, holding the blade in both hands and smiling at him.

"None of us will be getting much rest until the war is over, y'grace," the armorer replied. "Never have been able to sleep well here."

"At Dragonstone?" Queen Daenerys asked.

Gendry shrugged. "Here, Harrenhal, King's Landing. Been too busy surviving and working to sleep well."

The expression on the queen's face was thoughtful. She knew about his previous imprisonment at the hands of his uncle. She'd shown sympathy and compassion, which was the reason he could speak of it now. Queen Daenerys sat back into her throne, the new sword settling gracefully near her lap.

"Master Baratheon, for your service to the crown and our allies, I would award you a lordship and your father's ancestral home of Storm's End, as well as a permanent seat on our war council."

Gendry didn't know what to feel. A lordship. A holdfast. As a lowborn he shouldn't even be offered such a prize. Words half croaked from his throat. "Storm's End, y'grace?"

"Yes." The Dragon Queen nodded with a slight smile. "You have forged the first Valerian steel sword in over a 1,000 years. Something no one else in our kingdom has done."

Gendry shook his head. "I didn't do it alone, y'grace. Maester Tarly found out how to make a sword at the citadel before it was sacked. All I did was find a way to put one together."

"Maester Tarly will be duly awarded for his discovery," the queen acknowledged. Her voice was gentle and commanding. "However, your skill, knowledge, and ingenuity brought this first sword into being. Valerian steel will give us a great advantage over the army of the dead. What I ask, is that you teach this skill to other armorers and smiths, and with your help, we will have the best weapons to win the war ahead. Take up your hammer and the lordship which comes with it. What say you, my lord?"

Gendry glanced at the other pleased and proud faces in the room. Jon Snow, whom he admired more every day. Ser Davos who encouraged and mentored him better than Master Mott. Missandei who had been so welcoming and kind to him during the war council meetings. Lord Tyrion, whose occasional visits to the forge made him smile and laugh during a hard day. To be offered a position of equality among all of them was a humbling situation.

He remembered the awe and wonder he felt years ago when he stood on a ship's deck with Lady Melisandre as they sailed past King's Landing and the Red Keep. The bay wasn't beautiful any more, it had been littered with the bones of old ships and the stink of rotting dead men floating in the harbor. After all the running and fighting, he was right back where he started, albeit sailing swiftly on a ship with a Red Priestess he didn't trust.

 _"Do you miss it?" She had asked._

 _"King's Landing?"_

 _"Your father's house."_

 _"Never had a father, never wanted one."_

 _"Haven't you ever wondered where your strength came from? Your talent for fighting?"_

 _"I'm lowborn. As low as can be. My mother was a tavern wench."_

 _"Your blood is noble."_

 _"You're saying my father, he was some lord or -"_

 _"There. Your father's house." The priestess nodded to the sprawling towers of the Red Keep._

 _The enormity of her words awed him. Words of truth spilled from his lips and thoughts. "I'm just a bastard," he argued._

 _"A bastard of Robert Baratheon, first of his name king of the Andals and the first men. Why do you think the gold cloaks wanted you?_

Gendry's mind was too overwhelmed to form real words for a minute. Lord Tyrion's eloquent voice emerged from his place beside the queen. "This is a great honor, Master Gendry." His manner was kind and patient, and he gave him a knowing nod. "I'm sure a humble man like yourself finds it difficult to be lifted up so high into the queen's service."

"To be blunt, m'lord Hand, I'm a lowborn armorer who has little more than skill and some second hand tools to his name." Gendry countered. "I never wanted or expected to hold a lordly house like Storm's End. I've only wanted to be free to forge weapons and help win the war against the dead rising in the north."

"And afterward?" Lord Tyrion queried. "Let's say we win the day with the weapons you and your armorers have made. The queen will need the support of all the noble houses on her side to assure there is peace and justice in Westeros. The small folk of the Stormlands have been without a voice and protection for many years. Your late father's seat at Storm's End sits empty and waiting for a good man of your talents."

"I'd rather worry about the dead knocking on our door right now, m'lord. I don't have time to sort out the running of a holdfast when there's work to be done."

The queen inclined her head and smiled before remarking, "I offer a loyal man his birthright, and he hedges an answer."

"Not out of disrespect, y'grace." Gendry countered quickly. "I haven't put much thought to the future with the war right in front of us. Don't know if I'll get around to having a wife and a family of my own who'd benefit from a title."

"Maybe one day you shall," the queen spoke kindly. "This new sword is a sign of hope." She gestured to the sword in her lap, admiring it gratefully. "And you're right about the hardships ahead. War is upon us, and our focus needs to be on the plans and preparation of what lies ahead."

She looked up from the sword and directly at Gendry. "We must win this war. For Westeros to have any future at all, we must defeat the Night King and all the creatures who follow him. My offer is a promise that when the war is won, we will build a better world for all the people of the Nine Kingdoms. We will need men and women with talent and loyalty like yours to help build that world, where the poor have a voice and are no longer crushed by the powerful on top. I can think of no better man than yourself to hold the Stormlands as head of House Baratheon."

For emphasis, she paused for a moment. Her manner so regal and her words so compelling, he knew what he had to say when she asked again, "What say you, my lord?"

Gendry bent his head. "I accept, y'grace," he said firmly, and allowed himself to smile.

 **Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Chapter Four**

Gendry had never seen so much snow before. The open country side of the northern kingdom continued to stretch out before him, and the rugged beauty of the place hadn't ceased to impress him. It was strange to think the road taking him another thousand leagues to Winterfell, was probably close to the route Yoren would have led him, Hot Pie, Lommy, and the others on their journey north to the Wall. How his life would have been different if he'd made that trip. He probably would have served the Night's Watch with Jon Snow as its Lord Commander. The rocky crags and hearty pines were interspaced with older forests, ancient and haunting. It was a strange place for a son of Flea Bottom to see in his lifetime.

The army had marched for over a month, with over 20,000 men complete with wagons of supplies making the journey to the far north. The road ahead was passable to march six men in each line, and with half their army making the long trek north by foot, the column of banners stretched well behind him. He rode with John Snow, the King in the North, and Ser Davos near the front of the column, and from the vantage point, he could see the thousands of men snaking down the road for miles and miles.

It was a sight to remember, that was for certain.

He glanced over at the king and read the pensive expression on his lordship's face. After all their months preparing for war, the ride to Winterfell seemed longer than he'd expected.

"How much further to Winterfell, y'grace?" Gendry asked the king.

"Getting tired of the landscape already?" There was no bite to his voice, just an acceptance that he was being forced to make conversation with at least one person during the last leg of the journey home.

"It's more open space and snow than I've seen in my life." Lord Baratheon supplied. "I can see why some men feel the place is unsettling. It's beautiful in its way."

"Aye," Jon replied. "It's the type of beauty that's kept the Northmen close to their home and the Southern folk from venturing too close."

Gendry supposed isolation worked as both an advantage and disadvantage to the northern reaches of Westeros. "Ser Davos says it snows here, even in the summer. Don't know how that works."

"Hearty crops and good trade help out quite a bit. All I've known is summer up here. The snow doesn't last very long and the hills and fields stretch as far as the eye can see. I used to ride with my brother and in the woods and flat lands surrounding Winterfell. You'd turn around to make for the keep, and see the sunset casting long shadows and light reflecting from the glass gardens. It seemed the whole world to me then."

"Anyplace can seem like the whole world when you're little," Gendry interjected. Growing up in the close alleyways and higgelty-piggelty streets of flea bottom seemed immense.

The king smiled. "True. I can remember wanting Winterfell to be my home for the rest of my life, to live and work within its walls. I thought that would be my brother's future, not mine. I left when I was seventeen for the wall and became a brother of the Night's Watch. Never thought I'd see Winterfell again."

One cold evening, Ser Davos had told him the story of Jon Snow's death and subsequent resurrection with the aid of Lady Melisandre. The Lord Commander executed the men who'd killed him, passed his mantle to the next commander, and with his sister, reclaimed Winterfell from the last Lord Bolton. It was the type of story which, if Gentry been a young boy, would have been a treat to hear. Actually knowing the man at the center of the myth, and having spent time in his company in Dragonstone, the tale seemed harsher and painful rather than thrilling and glorious.

What could anyone say when confronted with so much loss?

"I've learned life takes you places you never expected to go, and it can take you to some dark and terrible places at any time, y'grace. It gets worse before it gets better."

"Aye," the king replied. "Seems like it, doesn't it?"

"I thought I'd be an armorer my whole life." Gendry supplied. "Take over for Master Mott when he grew too old to work. Take on an apprentice of my own. Spend the rest of my life in Flea Bottom. I was sold to the Night's Watch, and thought my life would be a short life in a dark cold place. That all changed when the Lannister forces took your sister and I to Herrenhal. Never thought we'd escape that place, but we did. Would have died on a pyre to the Red God, had things been different. Been on the run from some noble lord or another ever since. Everyone I've met since I left Flea Bottom wanted me for my trade, my blood, or my father's name. Sitting here, my childhood in Flea Bottom seems ten thousand miles away."

"You're still not keen on being lord of Storm's End, are you?" the king asked with amusement, the northern tones of his voice clipped the words, making them sound harsher than they actually were. The stag lord had grown used to them over the past year.

"I told you and Ser Davos, I wasn't raised to be head of a noble house," Gendry replied, distain seeping from his voice. "I never wanted one and never needed one. I'm a tradesman helping to win a war. If the Queen feels it will help to be lord of a place I've never seen, so be it. The only thing I'll be lording over is the forge at Winterfell and the other at Castle Black for the war to come."

The amused expression on the king's face matched his words. "You'll be thinking of Storm's End more now that we're here in the north. What you would do and where you would even begin. It's a task no man should take on alone."

"With respect, y'grace, I never gave much thought about the future until I joined the Queen's cause," Lord Baratheon replied. "You have sisters, a family. I have no one."

"What made you change your mind?" his noble companion asked.

"I was tired of running. Of hiding." Gendry replied, truth and wariness falling from his lips. "I didn't want to live my life looking over my shoulder, waiting to be burned alive as a sacrifice to one god or another. When you're the bastard son of a king, there's nothing safe about your place in the world. I could hide under a rock, stabbed in my sleep and be no better off. If the sword is coming, I'd rather face it head on. I told myself when I came back to Dragonstone, no more running."

The road ahead cleared out and the great white plains gently sloped upward to form an expansive grey blot on the horizon. Small lights flickered from the upper reaches of the darkness.

"You're right," the king replied, looking at the grey stone of Winterfell longingly. "You are who you are, and there's no use running."

XxX

Banners had been spotted in the distance.

Months of preparing for reinforcements were coming to fruition, and Sansa stood firmly in the middle of small legion of people, organizing and delegating as effectively as any military commander. She looked so much like their mother, Arya thought. The braid, the stance, the confidence. The very stones of Winterfell seemed to respond to her sister's voice and direction. With her efforts, the castle had come back to life and could play host to the army of men marching to the gates. Arya was sure Catlyn Stark would have been proud of what her sister had become - a true lady of Winterfell.

For her part, Arya had prepared reports, received inventories, inspected repairs, surveyed the castle three times, and made arrangements house as many men possible in within the heated stones of their home. This was not ideal weather to encamp men, and Sansa was determined they would house as many soldiers as possible, including the habitable areas of the broken tower. Every useable space was accounted for and readied. She had to do now was wait.

Wait for her brother to come home. Wait for Gendry to arrive. Wait for the war to start.

Arya hated waiting.

She stood in the battlements, watching the proud Direwolf banners wave in the brisk late afternoon breeze. The banners in the far distance, many bearing the mark of the three headed dragon, were coming into focus. But there were others - Tyrell, Martel, Dayne of Starfell, Garglen, Blackmont, Swann, Caron, and there - one for house Baratheon. Arya couldn't recall being pleased to see a Baratheon banner more.

The riders near the front of the column came into view, several men she didn't know, and the unmistakable dark hair and beard of her brother. Jon was finally home. Arya ran down to the steps leading to the courtyard, cape flowing in a streak behind her. No dress, just the trousers, wool short frock, and leather chest harness she'd put on in the morning. Sansa thought it best to disregard a welcoming ceremony in favor of feeding and settling their guests from the cold as quickly as possible. Arya felt Jon would approve.

When she slowed her run at the castle doors, she walked out, and amidst the men and the noise of the new arrivals, she clapped eyes on her siblings. Jon was embracing Sansa, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead - something he never would have done when they were growing up. They were speaking softly to each other, care and concern apparent in their tones and faces. Sansa was reassuring their brother of something, eyes darting through the crowd to the front of the castle. To her. Her sister's look warmed, and Arya could see her mouth moving soundlessly - 'there'.

Jon turned, his face shining with hope, and Arya felt the sheer force of his gaze for the first time since her childhood. His hair was tied back, and his beard was fuller, but he was unmistakably Jon. Her beloved brother was home, and she couldn't see for the tears forming in her eyes. Her feet pushed her forward, and she was running, jumping to latch her arms around his neck and bury her face into his cheek like she had when she was seven. He was still so much taller than her, and the strength of his arms pulled her against his chest and up into the air.

Jon was finally home, and for the first time in a long time, she cried.

XxX

When Ser Davos entered the courtyard, there were already people scurrying about the grounds. A tall and beautiful woman with hair like flame walked out from the entrance of the keep, looking calmly through the unknown faces of the riders. She waved to Ser Davos, who kindly waved back. Then she hurried to the King of the North, who dismounted quickly to embrace his sister.

Ser Davos descended from his horse, and Lord Baratheon did the same. He held on the reins until a stable boy appeared, taking the two tired mounts to their warm stables. Gendry took a step toward the keep, when Ser Davos clasped a hand on his arm. The older man's eyes observed the words exchanged between the King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell. His grace had held his anxiety in check through the long march north, but it seemed his patience had just about reached its limits.

"That's the king's sister Lady Sansa," Ser Davos supplied. "Lady of Winterfell."

Gendry nodded. "I reckoned that. Where's Ayra?"

Ser Davos saw the door open to the castle again, and a short, dark haired young woman walking through the entry doors. The opposite of the Lady of Winterfell in nearly every way, the lass wore a half frock, leather chest armor, and small thin sword at her side. The type of sword a brother would gift to an impressionable younger sister.

The king had seen her too, and his slightly dazed and hopeful face stared at the younger woman like she was a figment of a dream.

Lady Arya.

Gendry made a move to walk to her. "Wait a second, lad," Ser Davos said. "Let them have a moment."

Arya ran to her brother, tears streaming from her face, and was enveloped into a tight embrace which lasted more than a minute. The force of emotion in the courtyard was palatable to nearly everyone. After a while, Sansa tentatively touched her brother's back, and rubbed circles of comfort there. Jon Snow made no move to release Arya, but placed her back down onto her feet before enfolding both sisters into his embrace.

This was family, Ser Davos thought. Tears of the lost and found made flesh. No family deserved a happier moment more than the Starks of Winterfell. The lord of the castle was kissing his siblings on the head again and with an arm around each one of them, walking into the warmth of the hall, capes billowing in the cold wind.

The Onion Knight looked back at his younger companion, whose face held a look of such longing it would make the older man pensive for most of the night. "Let them have this night, m'lord." He clapped the younger man on the shoulder and said with quiet confidence, "You'll see her tomorrow." He gestured to another, smaller door to the keep. Lord Baratheon walked with him slowly, eyes and posture resigned to an evening spent waiting. As they walked through the heavy wooden door, the warm scent of bread and soup filled the corridor. Ser Davos led the way through the now familiar walls of Winterfell. "Com'on, let's get you settled, eh?"

 **Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

 **Chapter Five**

Jon couldn't remember feeling this degree of relief in his life. He sighed, and felt the weight and comfort of his surroundings fall heavily across his shoulders as he took supper with his sisters in Sansa's solar.

Sansa encouraged him to eat, refilling his bowl with stew again. She looked happy to have him home, eating her own dinner and ensuring their ale cups were never empty. Arya ate little, and talked more, asking questions about the Wall, the wildlings, and the army marching from Dragonstone. He wasn't suspicious of her motives, but was sure she was distracting him from answering his own concerns.

Too much time had passed for their topic of conversations to be anything but comfortable.

With the last meal finished, the table was cleared by servants, and Jon himself fed a few more logs to the fire to keep the room warm. Ghost and Nymeria gave him an appraising look from their spot near the hearth. There was a feeling of coziness as the three of them sat in adjacent chairs forming a small half-circle in the light from the fireplace. He almost didn't know where to begin when Arya began, "My friend, Gendry. He said he was marching north with you. I saw his banner on the horizon."

Jon nodded and replied, "He rode with Ser Davos and me near the front. I didn't think he was too far behind. I'm sorry, I should have made sure you saw him."

"I'm sure he'll understand we need some time together," Sansa assured. "Ser Davos will be good company. You'll see him in the morning."

Jon placed his mug on the floor. "Speaking of Gendry, he told me about some of your travels together, but not about the other parts. How father died, how you escaped King's Landing, what happened after you were taken away by Sandor Clegane. Brianne of Tarth said she saw you, and that Clegane died in a fight. But what happened after that? Where did you go?"

When Arya didn't answer, her brother pressed on, concern and frustration contorting his face. "I won't pass judgement on you for anything that's happened. Whatever you did, I'm sure you did it because there was no other choice." He was met again by stony silence. Jon wanted to scrub his hands over his face in frustration. Instead, he remained patient. "You don't have to tell me right now if you're not feeling up to it-"

"Braavos." Arya interjected. "I went to Braavos."

"Braavos?" Alarm was clear in his voice. "Why?"

Sansa cleared her throat and laying a hand on her brother's arm, making a gentle request. "Let's start at the beginning. What happened the day father died? You haven't said much about it other than you walked out of King's Landing with a group of Night's Watch recruits."

Jon remembered how his younger sister could hold a straight face when calculating an answer. It had probably served her well when she had been very young and navigating a dangerous world without protection. He felt his heart ache for the memory of the little girl who ran through Winterfell with a direwolf puppy at her heels and a wooden sword in her hand.

"I won't think lesser of you for what's happened," he promised.

Feeling Arya's distress, Nymeria whined in the corner, and padded over to lay her furry head in her mistress's lap. Ghost followed his sister, nudging Jon and then Sansa with his snout. Jon scratched the ears of his direwolf, and obliged Nymeria with a few scratches as well.

Arya's throat trembled before she began, "The day father died, I was in a sword lesson with Syrio Forrel. He was the First Sword to the Sea Lord of Braavos. He was teaching me the water dance, and he was amazing." Her voice was clear, concise, but not emotional. It reminded Jon too much of the words spoken by Caster's wives north of the Wall. Empty, with a brittle edge of acceptance. He didn't stop his sister from talking, letting her tell the story of how she escaped the Red Keep by running through the back stairs and doors to the courtyard.

"I killed a boy," she told him, blank faced. "A stable boy."

By the Old Gods, she'd been so young. Too young to experience that. She hadn't seen death first hand, like Bran, himself, or Robb. She'd been throwing pudding at her sister with a spoon before she left home. Jon remembered how his father and Lord Commander Mormont had listened to him, quietly accepting of words without showing pity or contempt. He used that memory now, and said non-committally, "You were in danger."

Her voice didn't tremble. "He wanted to turn me over to the Lannisters. He came at me and I had Needle in my hand. He fell to the ground dead. Then I ran into the streets of King's Landing."

Jon nodded, not with disapproval but with acceptance. "Then what happened?"

Her words painted a picture of watching father's trial from the statue of Baylor. Of Yoren, and how he prevented her from watching the execution, carrying her away from the crowds to an alley where he cut her hair and gave her the name Arry. Jon didn't have to prompt her to keep going, the words just flowed, and lifeless like that had happened in a dream or to someone else. Meeting Gendry, Hot Pie, Lommy, and the faceless man Jaqen H'ghar. Her capture and escape from Harrenhal. Meeting the Brotherhood without Banners. Gendry's forced parting and the Red Priestess.

Sandor.

The Red Wedding.

Seeing Grey Wind's head stitched to Robb's body and paraded by horse through the Frey camp.

Jon put his head in his hands and felt the pain of Robb's loss when Arya told him the story. Robb, the pride of Lord and Lady Stark. The man who should be sitting in his chair right now. His brother had sent him updates throughout the campaign. Giving him news on securing an alliance at the Twins with his uncle, and about his beautiful wife from Volantis. There wasn't a day that didn't pass that he didn't feel Robb's absence in the very center of his chest. His eyes stinging, he turned to Sansa and saw tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I don't know what happened to mother," Arya stated flatly. "I knew she was there, but never saw her."

Sansa was the one who answered. "I was told they cut her throat to the bone and threw her body into the river. The people at court in King's Landing took great joy in telling me everything about her death. And Robb's." Her voice was harsh with grief.

Jon could see Sansa was at war with herself to stay calm and not cry, but was losing the battle to hold ladylike composure. Jon laid a warm hand over her cold one, just as she had done when they had received news of Rickon's imprisonment by Ramsay Bolton. She held his hand firmly in hers, and allowed the grief she'd held so tightly to flow freely from her eyes.

"Then what happened?" Jon prompted, wanting to keep Arya's words moving forward. She obliged him, and the more she spoke, Jon could hear the force of her words.

Killing the men who'd mutilated Robb.

Going to the Erie.

Sandor's battle with Brienne of Tarth.

Taking a ship to Braavos.

Her short time an apprentice to the Faceless Men.

Killing Walter Frey right under the noses of the Lannister army.

Her time with the Brotherhood without Banners.

Finding Nymeria.

Coming home.

By the end, Arya looked emotionally spent. It was the first time she'd probably ever spoken of the events of those years in their entirety. She had slumped forward in her chair, balancing her elbows on her knees. For all the growing she'd done during their years apart, she still looked so very young in his eyes. Jon moved from his seat to kneel at Arya's chair, holding her head close to his the way he used to when she was much younger. "You shouldn't have had to go through what you did, but I'm pleased you're safe here at home. I never want you to have to endure any of those things again."

"You can't promise me they won't happen again," Arya said, showing wisdom hardened by experience. "You won't always be able to protect me."

Jon shook his head. "You're right, so we'll protect each other. We need to trust and rely one another as we've never done before. As long as we're together, we'll survive." He gazed imploringly at her, wishing he had the words to convince her of what past experience had dictated. "Do you remember what father told you about a wolf pack?"

Arya looked thoughtful for a moment. "The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."

"Aye," he replied. "Winter has come, and the three of us need to stick together and see this war out to the end."

His younger sister nodded. "What happens afterward? After the war?"

Sansa smiled broadly, leaving her seat to join her brother kneeling on the floor. "You're thinking that far ahead? I envy you, Arya."

"I honestly don't know what we'll do," Jon smiled, bringing both his sisters into an awkward and heartfelt half embrace. "All I want is for you and Sansa to be safe and happy, wherever you choose to go or what you decide to do."

Tears drying, kisses given, the three of them were silent for a little while. Sansa was the first to rise, putting the more wood on the fire and refilling their glasses. She offered one to Jon first, and the other to Arya before refilling her own glass.

Jon drank deeply from his ale, and poked the fire to stir the heat from the fireplace. His thoughts were grinding away in his brain when Arya's voice pulled him back to reality. "So, I heard you have a friend who fucked a bear. How'd you meet him?" She was drinking deeply from her own glass, a little of her old swagger had peaked back into her eyes. It was such as sudden and unexpected question, Jon laughed out loud.

"By the Gods, Arya." Sansa admonished before chuckling a bit as well.

Jon took another drink and let the dark warmth of the room ease his mind. He'd probably had too much ale, and by opening the lid on his past so to speak, they'd have a long night ahead of them.

"It's a long story, and just one of many." Jon said slowly. The three of them had already worked their way through one emotional quagmire, could they really endure another one?

Arya shrugged her shoulders, and left her chair to make herself comfortable with a few furs and a cushion on the rug floor. Taking a deep drink from her cup, she reclined next to her direwolf. "We've got all night, and besides, I've fallen asleep in worse places."

XxX

She'd fallen asleep on the floor sometime after Jon had finished off the last of the ale, describing Dragonstone under the reign of Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Arya woke up in her sister's bed at midday. From the amount of time she'd slept, they must have been up until the small hours of the morning. Still dressed in what she'd worn the previous night, she had dinner in the main hall with her sister and some of the men who'd marched with her brother from Dragonstone. Jon was conferring with the free folk outside, Sansa had said, and left to oversee the preparation for dinner that evening.

The previous night with all its revelations, made her feel weak and at loose ends. Arya Stark wasn't a sobbing little girl. But telling her brother and sister most of the truth, even the uncomfortable ones, left her feel pensive and unsure of how to act. She might have not wanted to talk to a lot of people at the moment, but she should at least see Gendry with her own eyes before they supped together later.

It wasn't difficult to tell Gendry Baratheon apart from the other men working in the forge of Winterfell. He'd always been tall, and from the look of his shoulders, still slouched when he wasn't working. Time had aged some of his looks, making the stamp of his noble father's features more pronounced. Arya could only remember a fat Robert Baratheon, loud mouthed, bushy beard, and jolly to the point of irritability. She could see how King Robert in his prime would have been a powerful and commandingly handsome presence.

At the tender age of nine, Arya had looked at Gendry the way a girl looked at a boy, as equals and friends. Didn't matter if he was older. Now, she was saw him with new eyes, the way a young woman looked at a young man.

Seven hells, Gendry Baratheon was handsome.

The light shift he wore provided little protection from the winter winds whipping through the courtyard, but here close to the heat of the forge, anything more would have been sweltering. He'd grown out of the last lankiness of his youth, and while he was still slim in physique, the muscles of his arms and chest were more defined. His eyes and the pleasing features of his face, were focused entirely on his work, intense and precise.

He was making repairs to a blade, which from the look of it, had seen better days a decade ago.

Arya walked casually toward the forge, the look of him hammering away making her feel as if no time had really passed between them at all. She didn't even bother to greet him, but simply leaned against a support beam and said "I heard you're serving again."

He stopped hammering, and looked up from his work. Sweat gleamed on his face and neck. Gendry gave her a once over look and just as coolly replied. "I pledged my service to Queen Daenerys over a year ago. Didn't need to think twice about it."

"I thought you were through serving people like Master Mott, Lord Tywin, and Lord Beric," Arya continued, trying to prove a point.

He gave her a half grin, placing the steel back into the coals to heat again. The smile made her feel like she was ten years old, stopping by his forge in Harrenhal to eat an apple and watch him work. They were three hundred leagues from that place, but the dynamic hadn't changed much.

"I'm serving a woman now. Suits me better. She hasn't sold me, tortured me, or traded me."

He pulled the sword out of the forge and back onto the anvil, hammering the last few swings into place before cooling the steel in a water bucket nearby.

"For now," Arya stated.

"For now," Gendry affirmed.

"You said you wanted your freedom," Arya said conversationally. "I never pictured you serving an uncrowned queen."

Gendry held out the sword in one hand, stood sideways, and made a few practice swings. He must have been satisfied with the weight, as he placed it carefully on a blanket of finished weapons near the door. Turning from the door, he went back to his forge and selected a new sword to repair. He held the weapon in the weight, seeming to deliberate what the first move of repair to make, but then tossed it on his work bench.

"The queen offered me the chance to prove myself," Gendry began. "I worked every day in her forges and turned out more arms and armor than three men. She legitimized me, without my asking, and asked if I would take the title of Master Baratheon, on account of my trade."

She smiled at him proudly, and could picture him toiling away day and night to showcase his skills. He smiled back, his expression reminded her of the courting couples she saw walking hand in hand on the Long Canal back in Braavos. She broke the moment.

"You made her a new weapon?"

He nodded, "A Valerian steel sword. I made out how to forge one. Your brother's friend, a maester at the citadel found out how to do it."

"He unpuzzled it, you made it, and the queen made you a lord."

"She gave me Storms End," he affirmed.

"In exchange for support from House Baratheon and its bannermen," Arya said shortly.

Gendry scoffed. "What bannermen? There was no men to call from the Stormlands. Most of them died fighting for Lord Stannis, I reckon. Look, I'm not a general or a strategist. I've been training as many apprentice smiths as I can to make Valerian steel swords for the war. Haven't been any nearer to Storm's End than Dragonstone, and I don't know if I'll ever have the chance to."

He went quiet, his eyes looked weary, and not just from the long journey and his present work.

"I worried about you," He said stiffly. "I was sitting in that cart on the way Dragonstone, hoping you'd made it back to your family alright. Didn't find out until I came back to Flea Bottom That your mum and brother were dead. No word about you, though." His words rang with an open question, and she knew he wouldn't press her for an answer with entreaties or words. All he had to do was use those green eyes of his, and Arya knew by staring into them a moment longer, the words would tumble out of her mouth.

She looked at her feet, recovering her wits, and sighed. "It's too long a story to tell here and all at once," she intoned. "I spent the night talking about it with Jon and my sister, and even then I didn't tell them everything."

Gendry rubbed his hands together, and laced up the shirt he was wearing. "Well, if you hand me that cloak there," he gestured to a cloak hanging on a hook against the wall, "We can get a drink and go from there. Don't know about you, but I'm parched."

Arya smiled, brightly, and when he smiled back, she felt the effect of his smile all the way to her toes.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

 **Chapter Six**

Time worked differently when you were very young, Arya thought. It changed the golden color of the sun, the vibrancy of the grass, and the richness of autumn leaves. For the rest of her life, Arya would be able to pinpoint the day her childhood days began to close, as well as the day she left them behind forever. Youth with all its elasticity, had a way of wrapping people to the innermost part of a person, and giving them a blueprint for all others who would pass through your life.

Gendry had been good, loyal, and protective of her through their many exploits. None of those memories consisted of anything carefree and pleasant like her youth in Winterfell, but her experiences had been made better by his sheer presence.

Walking through the grounds outside the castle side by side, it felt comfortable and right to be walking in step with Gendry again. He had a plain way of explaining things which she'd always appreciated, and when she wasn't as forthcoming, his intense gaze seemed to flush the words from her lips. There weren't many things she was ashamed of, and more than a few things she held back, but she felt the rightness of his presence smoothing the rough edges of her past away.

A friendship which had once been so deep, it was easy to jump back in again when they both seemed so willing.

Arya could sense when Gendry glossed over his imprisonment in Dragonstone. He said Lady Melisandre had used him to perform a blood ritual, but the actual mechanics of the act remained a mystery to her. Whatever the Red Priestess had done, it had certainly left its mark on him.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and they returned to Winterfell to take supper in the great hall. The family table had been kept separate, but at the same height as the others in the hall. Arya motioned for Gendry to sit with her next to Ser Davos and the wildling leader Tormund. Pleasantries made, eating commenced, and the good food and conversation around the table buoyed her spirit in a way that felt warm and natural.

"So," Arya asked Tormund while eating a mouthful of cooked carrot. "Are all your stories true? Like the one about the bear?"

Gendry had the good sense to keep his eyes on his bowl and not laugh in the face of the wildling leader.

"It's true, little sister," Tormund stated proudly. "It were another winter, colder even than the one I spent inside that giant, and snowing day and night, snowflakes as big as your head, not these little things. It snowed so hard the whole village was half buried. I was in me Ruddy Hall, with only a cask o' mead to keep me company and nothing to do but drink it. The more I drank the more I got to thinking about this woman lived close by, a fine strong woman with the biggest pair of teats you ever saw..."

It was difficult not to like Tormund after a story like that.

In the days that followed, Arya filled her days touring the encampment with Jon, meeting the heads of the southern houses and taking note of their needs and requests. She watched the men sparring in the tilt yard, and spoke with a few of them who had skill with a Dornish spear. She asked the commander of house Blackmont, a handsome older gentleman by the name of Perros, for instruction in southern weapons. Arya took to the spear quickly, noticing the similarities between the long staff techniques she'd learned in Braavos, and Lord Perros had been quite impressed.

A strong warrior woman seemed to be well appreciated in both the reaches of the cold north as well as the burning south.

Lord Baratheon, for his part, was hard at work organizing the forge and turning out a new series of Valerian steel swords. The process was both intensive and time consuming, and it was common to see him with from his apprentices from the cold grey of early dawn until the conclusion of supper hour. Arya didn't fetch him for dinner, but she saved him a plate and brought it to him if it got too late. He always looked at her so appreciatively, that she wasn't sure what he was pleased to see more - her or the good food from the kitchen.

It didn't really matter anyway.

Over dinner, they talked about the past, or the activities of the castle from their respective days, and with each exchange, tiny little webs began to spin and grow between them. It was friendship, but it was also something more. An intangible mystery on the cusp of being born. After he'd eaten, he left the work to one of his more experienced apprentices, and walked with her around the battlements, watching the lights from the encamped soldiers below or looking at the moon dozing high in the winter sky.

One evening, three weeks into his arrival, they took a turn around their usual route on the battlements. The sky was clear and colder than anything she'd felt in her life. But the sky, with its millions of twinkling stars, seemed to stretch out like a blanket above them. She didn't shiver from the cold, but rather from knowing the Night King and his army lay just beyond the Wall, waiting to descend upon the north.

"Never seen so many stars in my life," Gendry said tilting his head back with appreciation. "I can see why you northerners want to keep this place to yourselves."

When she didn't respond, he stood closer to her, opening one side of his cloak open to her. She shook her head, and said, "I don't need it."

"I know that look." Gendry said frankly, appraising her with his tradesman's eye, trying to figure out what was wrong. "You're cold or you're unsure. Don't deny it. Which one is it."

Arya looked out onto the beauty of night, with the moonless sky making the shape of the stars all the clearer. She nodded to the north, where the thin line between the earth and the sky seemed to fade to black. "It's getting darker there," she said quietly. "Over the last few nights, the stars have been disappearing from the horizon. The dark is gathering, and the war will begin soon."

Gendry looked thoughtfully at the area, his face hardening against a sudden wind. "We'll meet it when it does," he said finally. "There's nothing he can do tonight. The wall's still standing, and we've got time before we have to face him."

"I'm not sure it's going to be enough," Arya said darkly. "Jon said the queen hasn't arrived at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea yet, and she has the other half of the army. If the ships don't arrive, my brother won't have the numbers to beat back the Night King. They'll be marching to their deaths." Her voice, so quiet and forceful reinnervated "You'll be marching to your death."

Gendry shook his head, and started, "Arya- "

"Watching those men tie you up and put in you a cart with the Red Priestess was one of the worst days I can remember." She continued. "I knew she was going to hurt you, maybe even kill you, and there was nothing I could do about it."

Her friend countered her words. "There was nothing you could have done. The Red Woman was having her way, and there was nothing you or I could have done differently. Not with the men she had, not the Brotherhood without Banners standing by. War is coming. I'm going. Your brother is going, Ser Davos is going, Tormund is going. We're all going to the Wall to end this once and for all. No one has control over who dies and who lives. You said so yourself when you served the faceless men."

"I don't want to see you ride off to your death while I wait for the worst," Arya said with conviction.

"Are you afraid I'll die alone on a battle field? Well, look, I don't know if I will," Gendry said, stooping down to meet her eyes "All the time I've spent preparing for this war, and hammering away, maybe it will work out for the best, or maybe it won't. I don't know. But I can promise you something, these weeks I've spent here with you have been the best of my life. I've never known anything like it, being so at ease. Being here with you has made me want to look forward to the future, even if I don't know how it ends."

His words warmed her in a way she never expected. The cold seemed less biting. The heat from his nearness and the scent of his cloak was tugging at something deep in her chest. She gazed under her lashes at him, and watched him swallow slowly. A magnetic pull forced her head up and his mouth down. Their cold lips fused, warmed, collided.

Gendry reached for her then, easing her into the closeted warmth of his cloak, enfolding a strong arm around each of her elbows. Her mouth moved against his, and likewise. When they came up for air, he rested his forehead against her hair while she sank closer into his chest. The hard panes of his body were warm and solid against hers. She burrowed her face into his chest, inhaling the smell of him and placing a kiss to the skin above his heart.

"Seven hells, Arya," he breathed, and took her mouth with his again.

The brightness of the stars shone above, the darkness just on the horizon was momentarily forgotten.

XxX

If the soldiers and residents of Winterfell noticed the daily walks, exchange of looks, and momentary absences of both Lord Baratheon and the younger Lady Stark, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Her kisses were a heady mix of newness, comfort, and absolute trust. It was a potent combination, and when she pressed herself against him, a baser part of his mind responded to the slight curve and softness of her body. It was difficult to stay respectful of propriety when Arya instigated and responded to his kisses with such furor. There was no hesitation on her part, and often he had to force his hands to stay fused to the relatively safe areas of her back, waist, and shoulders.

The end of each long session in his forge and the subsequent late evenings spent in Arya's company marked another day closer to the war at the Wall. He could feel time pressing on his neck.

His apprentices had turned out the last of their supply of dragonglass arrowheads bound for Castle Black, and for the first time in nearly a year and a half, he found himself standing bereft of any major work in the forges of Winterfell. Aside from simple repairs and horseshoes, the bulk of his supplies had arrived at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and were being transported to Queen Daenerys's camp.

It was time to leave. He needed to set up a forge at Castle Black.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed his face. Gods, he was so tired.

Leaving the repairs to a new shift of apprentices, Gendry walked to the bath house. He nearly fell asleep in the warm water, and in the place between dreams and waking, he could swear he could feel Arya's breath against his cheek. His body hardened, responded. He woke up to the sound of his own groan. Ashamedly, he dunked his head under the water one last time, and left to change into cleaner garments.

The temperature was dropping again, but the men in the tiltyard continued to spar in the wind and crisp snow. There was a larger group than usual watching the sparing matches. It wasn't difficult to see why. Arya was using one of his new lightweight Valerian steel swords to demonstrate her Braavosi sword skills again.

"This is not the dance of the Westeros knights which is all hacking and hammering," She explained turning gracefully, like a delicate snowflake drifting in the air. "This is the Braavos dance, the water dance, and it is swift and sudden. Syrio Forrel, the First Sword to the Sea Lord of Braavos told me 'All men are made of water. If you pierce them, the water leaks out.'"

Gendry stood by to watch, noting a few of the younger men nodding appreciatively at her words, movements, or in some cases, her physical endowments.

Let them try, he thought. Arya Stark would beat them senseless to the floor without breaking a sweat, and ask 'Who's next?' He smiled at her easy stance, and watched her spar with a young man not much older than herself.

Gods, he wanted her. Just a few hours more and he could pull her into a remote corner of the battlements and hold her close.

A hulking figure appeared next to him, covered in sealskin and smelling like mead.

"You know the free folk, we steal our mates," the rough voice of Tormund Giantsbane said conversationally. "We study their routines, and when we see an opportunity, we hull them off and bed them. We don't emerge for several days, but when we do, we're married."

Gendry snorted. "You don't know Arya very well. No one can force her to go anywhere she doesn't want to go. She's more capable than most men realize."

The red-haired wildling looked at Gendry pointedly and smiled. "A good fight makes our way more of a challenge. And the challenge is the way to warm up before bedding a woman." He gestured to Arya and the crowd of free folk watching the demonstration with interest. "You should carry that girl away before any of my folk do it first."

"Her brother would never stand for it," Gendry replied, awareness heightened by the whispers and wide eyed stares of the free folk. Some of the younger men looked on patiently, studying every move Arya made, and not just for her know edge of swordplay. It reminded him of a hunter following his quarry.

Stealing Arya away for himself, right under the nose of her family was completely wrong. But the thought of riding away and not being physically with her before he left was equally unpalatable. Loving and leaving a woman may have been his royal father's way, but not his. He'd grown up a bastard, and he'd be damned if he was going to make any of his own.

Tormund replied. "Jon Snow would be angry with you, but he'd respect the little she wolf's decision to stay with a man she wanted." It was a strange conversation to be having, but it got him thinking none the less.

"So, you think he'd approve?" Gendry asked.

"Not my approval you need, boy." Giantsbane replied, smiling broadly at the way Arya helped a southerner man up from the ground after she'd bested him.

Gendry was unsure what the noble class of courtship, or any courtship for that matter, was supposed to look like. He hadn't prepared for the niceties of flattery to her family, a load of gifts, or drawing up documents. Maybe it was too soon to make such a rash decision, but he was out of time.

"Guess I better ask her brother then, shouldn't I?" Gendry said to Tormund, and strode off toward the twisting halls of Winterfell.

XxX

A knock on the door broke the afternoon silence.

Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, left his place near the large study table where the maps and correspondence were laid out, and answered the summons. The guard posted outside spoke through the thick panel, "Lord Gendry Baratheon."

Jon Snow, the liege lord of Winterfell looked up from his correspondence, and nodded his approval.

"Let him through," Ser Davos replied hand resting on the hard wooden door to keep it from opening too widely, and closing it shut again when the stag lord and master armorer entered the room. "M'lord," the old smuggler greeted. "You're away from your forge in broad daylight. That's a first for you in a long time."

"I have news and something else to discuss." Gendry replied, a deep set concern in his face. The younger man turned to address Jon Snow. "Y'grace."

"Lord Gendry," the king greeted, setting his letter down on the table. "We have news from the Wall. A raven had arrived at midday from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Lord Tyrion is arriving in a week to discuss urgent business. Whatever his errand is, I don't know much about it. I'm hoping you may have an idea."

"None, y'grace. Haven't received anything myself." Gendry replied.

The lad looked as if he had something on his mind. Ser Davos swooped in and asked, "How goes your work, m'lord? The last I saw you were shaping a last shipment of dragonglass."

"Aye, m'lord," Gendry affirmed. "We finished shaping the last of it less than an hour ago. But respectfully, m'lord, I have a request for his grace."

It was probably more supplies, or the need for another armorer, Ser Davos reasoned. Maybe he wanted to head up north early and set up a better forge at Castle Black. The former armorer's apprentice was a formidable organizer

"What do you need, m'lord?" Jon Snow asked, the patient tones in his voice inviting his friend to speak his mind.

The younger lord may have paused before he spoke, but the words came out measured and confident. "My work here is done, and my men and I will be leaving for Castle Black as soon as it can be arranged. We need to get the forges ready and make any repairs before the army arrives."

There, just as he'd predicted. Ser Davos' grin was a broad one when his king seemed to smile in relief. His voice, warm and congratulatory. "That's good new, my lord. I don't know a man who could have accomplished this task faster or better."

The praise didn't seem to have the effect on Lord Baratheon that Ser Davos expected. There was something in the young man's continence which seemed to signal not all was as it appeared to be. What he heard next from the young stag lord surprised him.

"Thank you, y'grace. Before I go north, I would like your blessing to marry your sister Arya. With your word, I would like us to wed as soon as it can be arranged."

XxX

 **Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

 **Chapter Seven**

Ser Davos, who'd been privy to many things in the service of two kings, had never encountered any sort of marriage request. Not for Stannis, who had been long married, nor for Princess Shireen. The King in the North, however, had two eligible sisters. Given her previous marriages and abuse while wife to Ramsay Bolton, there had been no reason to ponder the possibility of another union for Lady Sansa.

The younger girl, Arya, was another matter entirely.

It was well known noble marriages were not about love, but rather an acquisition of family prestige and power. In the worst cases, it mended old wounds and renewed alliances. Having seen first-hand the rise of Gendry Baratheon, it was clear the young man had become confident in his position to seek the hand of the king's sister. If it was out of politics or something else remained unclear.

"Marriage this close to leaving?" Ser Davos asked calmly, buying time with the question. "M'lord, I don't wish to sound indelicate, but if you have a need that's not being met, arrangements can be made to sate it."

"I was born a bastard, Ser Davos." Lord Genry replied flatly. "I know how they're made, and I want no part of it. I'm not my father. Any children I have will have my name or I'll have none at all."

The king, who'd watched and encouraged the rise of Lord Gendry at the queen's court in Dragonstone, looked at the younger man with an intense gaze of disbelief and wariness. There was no anger to his words when he responded, "We're at war. This isn't the time to think about marriage."

"With respect, y'grace. I disagree."

A brave response, and certainly not reckless.

Jon Snow didn't appear to be angry or irate, but Ser Davos remembered the king's constant worry for Lady Arya when news reached him of her reappearance. Part of him had been appeased, but the death of his youngest brother meant he wouldn't be at ease until he'd seen to his sister's safety at first hand. It was rare to see the king's calm demeanor crack under the weight of his words, but the concern and protection of his beloved sister made him suspicious of any change to the status quo.

"You've been here, what, a matter of weeks?" The king said, "And you want to marry my sister? After all she's been through, she's finally home. Safe at home with her family-"

"I know," Lord Gendry interrupted, not unsympathetically.

The king continued, words rushing from his lips laced with years of care, concern and frustration, "And you're asking this now? Why? I just got her back."

The stag lord's voice was strangely tight. "So did I, y'grace. _So did I._ " The immensity of his words, and the truth of them cooled the upheaval in the room.

Ser Davos took a different approach, remembering how he counseled his own son on the intricacies of such a request. "Does her ladyship know about your interest?"

Gendry shook his head. "I wanted to ask for his grace's blessing before asking her. I wanted nothing in our way."

"Well, joining houses in a time of war, it's not an unusual request by any means, your grace." Ser Davos stated. There was no need for such an alliance, but it could prove useful. "A marriage between Lord Baratheon and your sister could strengthen an image of unity among the northern and southern houses."

Just as those ideas began to look appealing, Lord Gendry said "I don't give a damn about joining houses, Ser Davos, but if would convince the king of my honorable intentions, I'll agree to whatever you say."

"Honorable?" The King in the North looked at Gendry incredulously. "You traveled with her from King's Landing through the Riverlands when she was ten. It's been a long time since then. Three weeks ago, you saw her for the first time in six years. I turned a blind eye to whispers of the two of you because I knew she could handle herself and I felt she deserved a little happiness. You've kept her honor, I hope. If you haven't, there will be consequences."

 _Consequences for you._ The words went unspoken.

"I've kept both her honor and mine intact," Gendry affirmed.

That statement did nothing to assuage Jon's mind. "Winter has come, my lord. You'd leave her, possibly carrying a babe inside her to raise alone?" The king queried.

"She would have the protection of my name and our child would have Storm's End." Gendry supplied. "Even without an heir, she can have my estate. All of it. I don't know the legal end to it, but I'd sign an agreement right now giving her Storm's End if I don't come back."

Ser Davos watched the tension between the two men break a little.

"There's no one else, y'grace. I can promise you that. I don't need anyone, and don't want anyone else." Lord Gendry reinnervated. "I just want her. Yes, she's a lady, and in some ways, she's not. I'd never try to change her to be something she isn't. She'd be free to do as she pleases, whether it's carrying a sword or training soldiers."

"You're right," Ser Davos said. "The lady can take of herself. But, in light of her sister's unfortunate marriages, you can understand the king's reluctance."

Gendry nodded "I can promise you, I'd never hurt her. I'd let her knock the head from my body before I'd ever raise a hand to her. I've protected her and she's protected me. I trust her more than anyone. That's why I want to marry her."

Ser Davos watched, there was love there, it was easy to see. And given the lad's prior experiences with the opposite sex, it was apparent he was intent on someone he could trust to share his life and his bed. It made sense. And as he wasn't about to change the lady in question, that should count for something.

The younger man's words struck a note in the king. "You love her." It wasn't a question. "It's not just infatuation?"

"She's all I want," the younger man said simply.

The king nodded, rose from his seat, and walked slowly to the map on the table, deep in thought. After several long moments, he strode back to meet Lord Baratheon head on.

"I told her we'd stay together," the king began. "We're stronger together as a family. Winter has come, and we cannot be divided."

"I'm not here to separate you. We'll stay here as long as she wants," Lord Gendry replied. "She's a Stark of Winterfell. This is her home, I won't force her to leave during the long winter. If we come out of this war, I'll ask Lord Tyrion to find a steward for Storm's End until the snow melts."

"It could be a long time." The king cautioned.

"I'll have a wife and a family for the first time in my life. Believe me, I won't be in any hurry to leave."

XxX

"You asked Jon for permission to marry me." She said quickly, anger biting each word. " _For his permission_."

Gendry had hoped she'd take it better than this. They were near one of their favorite places on the battlements, far away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

"I asked for his blessing," he countered. "He's your brother, and I respect him. I didn't want him to think I went behind his back. He said it was up to you, and I'd have to honor your decision. He knows both of us enough to say we'd suit. "

"I won't be bullied into marriage just because the two of you want to join houses," the harsh tones of her voice filling the room. "It's my life, and I make my own choices."

"Jon knows better than to make you do something you don't want to," Gendry spoke calmly. "And I don't give a damn about joining houses. We don't need an alliance. We're all together to defeat the undead army on our doorstep. I don't _need_ to marry you. I _want_ to marry you." His last words came out in a rush.

The confession shocked her, he could see it in her face. He pushed on, "If we win this war, everything is going to change. The smallfolk who had nothing will have a voice and protections from those who'd harm them. The nobles will have to work for the good of the realm. The queen wants people to lead and govern, as heads of houses or in her council. It'll be a future we would make ourselves, and we'll make it right for everyone."

"A utopia then," Arya nearly spat. "I don't trust the queen to keep her word. What's to stop her from doing what she pleases when everyone goes home and the fighting's over? People like her, people with power, do not give up that easily. I've seen it! You've seen it! If you believe what she says you're a fool!"

Gendry went very silent. He spoke slowly, meeting her eye to eye, and pulling her close. He did same thing when they were younger, when there was something important which needed to be said.

"There are only two women in this world I trust," he said. "You and Daenerys Targaryen. I have pledged my forge, my hammer, and my house to the Queen's service. That's how we'll win this war, with folk united in loyalty. To you, Arya, I would pledge everything."

"I told you, I don't want to be a lady." Her eyes furrowed in anger with her voice. "I'm not milling around wearing pretty clothes and dancing."

Gendry held her tighter. "Then don't. I don't care if you wear dresses or trousers, or how you spend your day doing needlework or sparring in a tiltyard. You don't have to be anything other than what you are."

She was still angry, he could feel it in the strain of her body. "I never wanted to be the lady of a house. It isn't me," Arya said.

"And you don't have to," he countered. "Our house will be what we want it to be. You led the Brotherhood without Banners, I think you can lead a holdfast. I've got to train new apprentices and keep the forges going for the queen. We'll help the small folk and bannermen who need it. Neither of us will be idle I imagine."

She wasn't satisfied. "Who'll take care of the other things? The household stuff -"

"We'll hire someone." He interrupted. "There are plenty of women who are good at that sort of thing. We'll tell her what we like and don't like, and let her at it."

It seemed practical, Arya acknowledged. She had some skill with reviewing accounts with her sister. Someone else could take care the management.

Arya was quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Children." She said simply. "Marriage means children. If I have them..." Her voice tapered off, and the immensity of her words filled the room. The idea of little girls and boys not yet born. She was sure neither herself nor Gendry gave much thought to having children in their youth, now the possibility of it was downright uncomfortable. The memory of her father's words came to mind. His voice had been warm, and gentle, and kind. 'You will marry a high lord, and run his home, and your sons shall be knights, princes, and lords,' and her response had been 'That's not me.'

Her poor father, one of the few people who knew how to talk to her, and always allowed her to run a bit wild. All because he loved her, and how her spirit reminded him of his sister Lyanna. He provided her lessons with Syrio Forel because he knew she wanted them. He laughed when she chased cats through the citadel. He hugged her with relief after she'd gone missing in the keep. Yoren told her how her father saw her kneeling on the statue of Balor, delivering a plea to the old night's watchman to fetch her and keep her safe. The last act of a father who wanted to see his beloved daughter delivered safely home.

She felt that love acutely, more so every day since she came home. She'd rebelled, she survived, and that spirit her father loved so much saved her life.

Gendry had protected her, teased her, and supported her too. Even in their worst moments, he put her well-being first. To be directly connected to that amount of care humbled her.

He was collecting himself, searching for the words that would reach her before she pulled away. "Our children, if and when we have them, can do what they like." He said earnestly. "They want to swing a sword, they'll have you. They want to raise a hammer, they'll have me. Even the girls. Whatever they like, Arya. They'll be whatever they want." He kissed her softly on the head.

She almost broke then, the slits of her eyes watering. Arya buried her head in his neck, rubbing the tears from her eyes into his neck. Gods, it was all she ever wanted. All she ever wanted for herself, and for every little girl who'd been just like her.

Gendry hugged her close, raining a few more kisses on the crown of her head. He tried to lighten the moment, give her a chance to relax. "Give me a home full of girls who can do that fancy swordplay of yours. They'd be unstoppable. The boys, well, they'll be too frightened of their sisters to pull their braids now, won't they? Teach them all how to shoot, how to ride, how to fight, how to read. Show them how to be good and fair. And if they want to learn more, we can send 'em to good people who'll show them what they want to know, teach them what they want to learn. Not that I'd want to send all of them away, mind, but if we do get a pretty little maid whose intent on needle work we could always ship her off to your sister."

Arya almost laughed. She hid her smile in the hollow of his throat, kissed the warm skin there, and felt his body heat with response. One hand reached up to bring his face to his, and he kissed the tender areas of her eyes, her brow, then her nose. He stopped and bent his forehead to hers, cupping her cheek and holding her close.

"I've never had a family, and I always wanted one." He said, strength and gentleness directing his voice, "Years ago, you said you wanted to be my family. I'm asking you now, be my family. Be mine, Arya. Marry me."

Gendry was one of the few people in the world she trusted after all the harrowing events of the past. He wanted her the way a man wanted a woman. She could feel that in the hard center of his trousers. And he wanted her for in the way she wanted to be. That trust sealed her course.

She lifted her toes and kissed him deeply in response, folding her arms around him and inhaling the scent of him. She could feel the solid warmth of his chest and back beneath his clothing, and the strength of his arms holding her close, not like a cage, but in comfort and stability.

Through all the dangerous plots and hardships unnumbered, she never thought she'd want this again. This closeness, this warmth, it made her think of the golden sunshine of her youth.

She let go of his lips, giving him a soft kiss at the end, and opened her eyes. He'd opened his, giving her a look of need and anticipation that made her go soft in the head. She smiled slightly then, giving herself over to the warm rush of emotion in her heart. "Yes," Arya said softly, "I'll be your family." She kissed him again, choosing what she wanted instead of what was expected, and gave herself over to joy.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 8

The wedding was short, and the feast fare was simple, but spirits were high throughout the hall and within the soldiers' encampment of Winterfell. The King of the North sat in the center of the high table, flanked on one side by his sister Sansa, and the newly married couple on the other. Ale and wine flowed, songs were sung, music played, and the cold winds outside seemed to lose their bluster from the strength of merriment and warmth inside.

Three days after Gendry's proposal, he and Arya were wed in the Godswood. It wasn't a traditional period to wait, but with everyone marching off to war anyone who truly cared about propriety were encouraged to turn a blind eye. The urgency of the ride north would give the new Lord and Lady Baratheon week of wedded bliss in Winterfell. Gendry was grateful to the king, his new goodbrother, for his blessing. Warfare parted people. He wanted to bask in the company of his new family for whatever time they had together.

His goodsister, Sansa had been gracious and welcoming. She told him she'd been married twice over and neither experience had been a pleasing experience. She was happy her little sister was far more fortunate in her choice of a husband.

When she'd told him of her own failed marriages, the momentary sadness in Sansa's words didn't sound bitter, but rather accepting and focused on the trials ahead. Gendry watched her lean across the table to speak at length with a few of the Northern lords who'd arrived for the march north. Her smiles were genuine as she greeted each man and asked after their families. Sansa was very much the Lady of Winterfell, embodying so much strength and grace of a woman confident in herself and the name she bore. No doubt her previous experiences of marriage would make her reluctant to enter into a union anytime soon.

It was such a change to be sitting at a high table, sharing a meat pie, brandywine cakes, and good ale with a family. A real family. A brother, a sister, and a wife.

His wife.

She was smiling coyly at him, her body blocking his view to the rest of the room, reaching over to what he thought would be his hand and took his newly filled glass instead. Arya's eyes didn't break from his after she stole his glass and took a long sip. Gendry knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he really didn't care. He snaked his own hand under the table and enveloped her small open hand in his, raised it to his mouth and kissed her open palm.

She was so warm, he thought, as he caressed the sides of her fingers to his face cheek. She enjoyed that. He saw her gasp slightly, and he felt a burn inside his chest for her.

Jon Snow threw him a sideways look from down the table. Lips twitching with amusement and something which looked like envy, the King in the North rose from his seat and quieted the room.

"My lords, my ladies, and the good folk gathered with us today. In a week, we go forward to do battle with the army of the dead, but on a night like this, we remind ourselves of what we're fighting for, the warmth of life itself. I raise a toast to my sister Lady Arya and her husband, my new goodbrother Lord Gendry Baratheon," the king raised his cup "To family and friendship."

"To Family! To Friendship!" the room echoed, with cheers and whistles erupting from the crowd.

"When shall we bed them, m'lord?" a voice asked from the room.

Gendry dipped his head with a chuckle. Arya on the other hand, looked coolly through the room, waiting to best any man who approached her.

Her brother intervened. "There will be no bedding ceremony. Though, if any man would like to try to approach my sister, he'll have to get through Lady Mormont as well."

Lady Lyanna Mormont turned and looked confidently at the faces in the room "As the lady wishes, your grace."

"I would hate for you to lose able fighting men before the battle, brother," Arya said loudly as she stood up from her seat. "Then again, I could use a good excuse to start a fight at my own wedding."

Laughter echoed in the room.

Before some drunk idiot took her up on the offer, Gendry rose from his seat and offering his hand to his wife. "I believe I have solution, y'grace," he said. He turned, and kissed his wife in a long and lingering fashion. The guests in the hall hooted and hollered their approval.

When Arya's body had gone pliant, Gendry lifted her in his arms, settled her over one shoulder. "I believe I'll choose the free folk's way of starting a marriage," and strode off the dais. His wife put up enough of a fight to make walking a bit of a challenge. She rose upright from his shoulder as well as she was able, and saw Jon laugh as hard as he had when they were children. Roaring voices rang through the rafters as the stag lord walked to Lady Lyanna, stopped to give her a nod and respectful, "m'lady." Lady Mormont's lips twitched, and nodded her approval. Gendry walked swiftly through the rest of the hall, past the suggestive comments of the people he passed. He didn't let her down until he reached her chambers – theirs now – closing the door behind them with a kick of his foot.

"Put me down!" Arya yelled.

"As m'lady commands." Her husband replied, taking great effort to see her settled carefully on their marriage bed.

"You didn't have to do that," his wife pointed out irritably. "I could have walked."

Gendry unlaced the boots from her feet and removed them, placing each one by the foot of the bed. "With all the wildlings looking on?" He replied with a sly grin. "Couldn't risk it. We're not married in their eyes until I've carried you off and bedded you proper."

"Who told you that?" Arya asked, fighting him slightly as he attempted to pull the hose from her right leg.

Gendry kissed the skin on her newly exposed ankle. He took his time answering, contemplating which article of clothing to remove next, her trousers or her over dress. His wife did not look amused.

"Aren't you going to answer?" She bit out.

Gendry removed the other length of hose, placing another kiss to the inside of that ankle. "Tormund," he responded easily. "The free folk have very different ideas of marriage. He told me I should abduct you, keep you to myself for a few days. Then, we'd be married."

"I don't think I like that idea," Arya said, leaning back a bit when he began making small caressing circles around her ankle bones with his thumbs.

"Didn't think you would," Gendry agreed. "And he did go on awhile about how to please a wilding woman."

"Curious to find out? Maybe I should call one of them in for you and I'll go back to the feast." Arya said, her eyes were deadly serious.

Gendry ignored the verbal jab. He leaned down to kiss his wife softly on the mouth. After a few seconds, he released her lips and began kissing the sensitive areas of her neck. In between caresses, he said, "I already have you, and I'm sure that's going to be as much as I can handle."

She helped him pull the frock dress over her head and he tossed it to the floor near the boots. The shift was light and flowing, giving him a tantalizing view of the shape of her body. His mouth found the hollow of her throat, and he began leaving a string of kisses down the front of her chest. Arya seemed to be succumbing to the first of his ministrations.

His hands floated up the inside of the shift, his warm hands working up the sides of her body. She gave a little leap when one hand found her bottom, while the other ventured upward.

"The door," she broke his kiss, gasping as she said, "Lock the door."

His rational mind heard her. She didn't push him away as much as disentangle himself by scooting to the middle of the bed. He nipped a few more kisses from her lips. "As m'lady commands." He watched her smile at their inside joke.

It took him longer than he expected to walk to the door and lock it. The lock for some reason, wouldn't quite shut. By the time he turned around, she was looking appraisingly at him. From the look in her eyes, she liked what she saw.

He took a step toward her.

"Stop," she said, eyes taking him in. "Boots and hose."

Reading her intentions, he responded "As m'lady commands." Holding one hand against the stone wall Gendry removed one boot, then the other. He let them collapse where they landed. The hose met the same fate.

He took another step, feeling a hot fist of anticipation in his chest. His lady wife, kneeling in the center of the bed, seemed to have other ideas.

"Shirt," she exhaled as he moved a few steps closer.

"As m'lady commands." Gendry discarded the garment. On the last few steps to the bed, she met his crushing kiss and there were no more words to be said.

XxX

As this is a rated 'T' story, I'm cutting it off there. I'll post a separate extended 'M' chapter to this fic, provided there's an audience.

Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!


	9. Chapter 9

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 9

Gendry and Arya were left alone for two days of uninterrupted talking, sleeping, and lovemaking. Food was left outside their room with a knock, and were returned outside to prevent anyone from interrupting their seclusion.

Gendry was sure there was absolutely nothing better in the world than making love to his lady wife, and falling asleep with her folded against his chest. He played with the silky strands of her hair when she slept, feeling her warm little breaths slide across the skin of his chest. It was unlike anything he'd ever known before.

The simple act of watching her stretch like a cat from the covers in the morning sun seemed surreal. He'd never spent this much time in the company of a woman, unclothed or not, sharing simple acts of intimacy. Kisses and caresses came easily, words and memories were shared openly. He held her close to his chest for a few minutes at a time, reassuring himself the woman in the bed wasn't a dream.

It was bliss.

When they ate, she sat in his lap, feeding each other pieces of cheese, meat, and sweet cake. They devoured everything and promptly went back to bed. Later the same night, he'd told her everything about his encounter with Lady Melisandre, the Red Priestess at Dragonstone. The overwhelming lust and shame he'd experienced, and how she pulled 'king's blood' from his body using leaches. She'd listened patiently, and after several minutes of coaxing, convinced him to sit upright while she straddled his lap, using her kisses and caresses to relax him to a state where he could enjoy that particular position. It became one of her favorites. After a particularly frantic bout of lovemaking, they lay submerged together in a hot bath in an adjoining room. Arya lay with her back against him, using a cloth to wash to wash whatever she could reach.

He never wanted to leave.

On the third morning, a brisk knock sounded against the door disturbing their peace.

"M'lord, m'lady." A voice stated. "The queen's banners have been spotted in the distance."

Arya startled, lifting her head from against his chest. Gendry's arms tightened reflexively around her, stroking the hair from her face and responding. "We'll be down shortly."

"Lord Tyrion?" Arya asked. She hadn't moved, but her eyes were already scanning the floor for her discarded clothes.

"Think so," Gendry responded. "Your brother said he was on his way." Gendry was reluctant to part from his wife, and he could see the same hesitation in her eyes. But there was no helping it. The war against the long night was imminent, and no amount of hiding would make it disappear.

"Come 'on," he said and kissed her gently. Her eyes were sad for a fraction of a second before they hardened to the determined continence she wore everyday like armor. They disentangled themselves and made haste washing and dressing. When they walked out the door of their room, he wrapped one of her arms with his. United together, they left the sanctuary of their marriage bed, and went to face the unknown together.

XxX

As soon as he arrived, Lord Tyrion was offered food and an opportunity to rest. The Hand of the Queen accepted a glass of wine and requested a private audience with the King of the North.

It was a request which didn't bode well for anyone.

Jon Snow received him in his usual chambers, the large table with maps and dispatches and ready for his friend to review. The King in the North was consciously concerned that a matter sent by Daenerys via the Hand of the Queen meant serious news indeed. Still, he would have preferred to speak of such matters with his own advisors present.

"I am at your disposal, my lord. This must be a dire matter for us to speak without Ser Davos and my sister." Jon said, gesturing to one of the chairs in the room.

"This matter concerns your family, your grace," Tyrion began. "Queen Daenerys, her advisors, and I have had the privilege of meeting Brandon Stark at the wall. The last time I saw him, he was a small boy. I never saw him after his accident. Heaven knows, Lady Stark wouldn't let my family close to his bedside after he fell from the broken tower."

"Where did you see him?" Jon asked, hope seeping in his voice. "Is he alright?"

Lord Tyrion lifted his hand asking for patience. "He and his companion, Meera Reed of Greywater Watch were let through the wall by the men of the Night's Watch. It was a rather exciting tale. The present Lord Commander remembered Bran from your description of his injuries. The young Lord Stark asked to meet the queen and myself as soon as the first of our troops arrived.

"How did you get there so fast?" Jon asked.

"By dragon," his guest supplied, drinking deeply from his glass and holding up a hand for emphasis. "I don't recommend it. But if you need to get somewhere fast, it's the best way to get there."

"Why was he north of the wall? It doesn't make sense."

"Apparently, he and Lady Reed, along with a sundry of others, were tasked with finding a man called the Three Eyed Raven in the far north."

"How far north?"

"Far past the Fist of the First Men. Bran said he was led there to be trained by the Three Eyed Raven to see the past and present through the faces of the weirwood trees. He has visions of the past, and experiences them as if he's right there in the situation."

None of this information made sense to Jon. "Visions? That can't be. Why didn't you bring him with you back to Winterfell?"

Lord Tyrion looked at the king and stated sadly, "He asked me not to. He sent me here to break some very difficult news, which if Bran's visions are correct, and they usually are, will be substantiated by Lord Howland Reed by sundown today."

"What news? White walkers are loose away from the Wall?"

"Something more personal than that, I'm afraid." Lord Tyrion replied. "Bran was able to share his visions with Queen Daenerys and myself. I wouldn't have been able to believe it if I hadn't experienced it."

"You're not making any sense, my lord." Jon said shortly. "What exactly is happening in these visions?" His patience on the topic of visions apparently at an end.

"The ones I saw concerned you. At the end of the uprising against the Mad King, Lord Stark and a few of his bannermen, rode to Dorne to rescue his sister Lyanna. She was housed in a remote hold called the Tower of Joy, ironic when you remember the stories of the poor girl being raped and kidnaped by Rhaegar Targaryen. Lord Eddard and Howland Reed were the only men to survive a confrontation with the last two members of the Targaryen Kings Guard."

Jon nodded. He knew this story. "Ser Arthur Dayne of Starfall and Ser Oswell Whent. Lord Stark always said Ser Arthur was the best swordsman he'd ever seen."

"Yes, he was," Lord Tyrion acknowledged. "The story goes Lord Stark bested Ser Arthur Dayne in battle, though, in Bran's visions, what I witnessed wasn't exactly how it happened. But, I digress. Lord Stark found his sister dying in the tower."

"Of a fever," Jon supplied. "Maester Luwin told me."

"Not exactly," the Queen's Hand countered. "She was dying, not from a fever. She was bleeding out from childbirth. A handmaiden presented a baby boy to Lord Stark, and his sister begged him to protect the child. Her words were, 'Robert will kill him if he finds out, you know he will.'"

The room suddenly grew very still. Jon found his mind strangely empty.

"What are you saying, my lord?"

"Lord Stark took a baby boy into his arms, a baby his mother had named Jaehaerys Targaryen."

Something hot and painful blossomed in his chest. It felt like one of the knives that had seared his flesh not so long ago by the traitorous brothers of the Night's Watch. "That's not true. Lord Eddard Stark was my father."

Lord Tyrion was sympathetic and frank. "Did he ever call you his son? Do you ever remember him saying to anyone, 'This is my son?'"

That insinuation caused Jon Snow to pour back through a lifetime of memories. "No. Everyone called me his son. When I last saw Lord Stark, I was heading north to join the Night's Watch. I asked him about my mother, if she knew where I was and what I was doing. He told me, I may not have his name, but I had his blood. And the next time we saw each other again, he'd tell me about my mother."

"I'm sorry he never had the chance to tell you," Lord Tyrion sympathized. "He probably thought, and correctly so, that once you took your vows to the Night's Watch, you'd be beyond the reach of the king."

"I don't see why that would matter." Jon stated.

"Do you remember what happened when my father sent his forces into the Red Keep on the last day of Targaryen rule?" Lord Tyrion reminded his friend.

"Maester Aemon said the army killed Prince Rhaegar's children."

"Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen were slaughtered mercilessly. King Robert was irate over your mother's kidnapping, and he was willing to kill every Targaryen in the nine kingdoms to get her back. If he'd learned there was a living, breathing Targaryen child alive, he would have stopped at nothing to end its life. Your mother's identity would have done little to stop him. If anything, he would have been happy to choke the life from the baby who'd killed the woman he loved. Lord Eddard made a promise to protect you, and he did so at the sacrifice of his own honor. Lord Stark kept you safe from his best friend, the one person he was closest to in the whole world. It's a terrible irony to protect his sister's child, the true heir to the kingdom, all the while helping his nephew's greatest enemy take the iron throne."

The silence stretched like a long shadow in the room. Neither man spoke. Jon was processing the enormity of what he'd learned, and Lord Tyrion, for his part, was patiently waiting for him to digest it by drinking the reminder of his wine.

The Hand of the Queen waited a minute before continuing. "Her grace and I saw it all. Your mother's elopement with Prince Rhaegar, their marriage in Dorne, your father's death at the Trident, and your mother's last moments in the Tower of Joy."

"How could Lyanna Stark legally marry Prince Rhaegar? He was already married." Jon said.

"The Targaryens were notorious for taking two wives at a time. Rhaegar's first wife Elia Martell knew about the arrangement. You, Jon Snow are not a bastard. You are Jaehaerys Targaryen, the lawful son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The queen felt it was prudent I tell you this in person. You are her nephew, and hold a stronger claim to the throne than she does."

Jon sighed and rubbed his face in his hands. "Does she want to kill me too?"

Tyrion gave him annoyed look. "You are one of her last living relatives. She was surprised and pleased to have you as a nephew. So much so, she sent me with a proposition. Continue to be King of the North, independent but cooperative with the rest of Westeros. You rule in the north, she rules in the south. Together both of you will usher in a new era of peace and prosperity after the war against the Long Night."

"I can't stay King of the North if I am what you say I am. Northerners will never accept anyone who isn't a Stark to rule. I'll have to tell them."

Tyrion played with the rim of his wineglass absently. "You're still a Stark. Half Stark, just as you were. Your mother is Lyanna Stark, the She-Wolf of Winterfell. Her name is just as powerful as your uncle Lord Eddard. You're no less a Stark than you were before."

Jon shook his head. "The Northern houses won't see it that way."

"I thought not, which is why we should call your family and councilors into join us. The next matter of business shouldn't be discussed without your cousins."

XxX

 **Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

Thanks for the feedback! I'll publish an 'M' rating chapter for a previous installment after finishing a few more installments of the story.

XxX

Chapter 10

The room was decided somber as Lord Tyrion shared the information he'd been charged to deliver. Ser Davos, Sansa, Arya, and Tormund were shocked and surprised to receive such news from the Hand of the Queen. All the while, Jon Snow held his head in his hands, unable to meet anyone in the eye. He was still coming to terms with such an emotional revelation, he was scouring every corner of his memory looking any off handed clues his father-no-uncle could have dropped along the way. Had Uncle Benjen known any of this?

"Our bannermen will not accept this," Sansa said with conviction. "They placed the legitimacy of Jon's rule on the premise that he's father's son."

"What we have now is a political quagmire," Tyrion surmised when he'd concluded the situation. "To continue to be King of the North, you'll need more support from the northern houses more than ever before. The queen and I are in agreement that you must make a marriage alliance."

Queen Daenerys was a beautiful woman, but the idea of consummating a marriage with his newly acquired aunt turned Jon's stomach.

"Marriage between family members may be acceptable amongst Targaryens, my lord. But that's not our way," Jon said wearily.

"I completely agree," Tyrion said taking another sip of wine. "What I suggested to her grace was an alliance with a northern family who will back your claim." The dwarf appraised the growing consternation of one particular person at the table. Whether the others could see it, was just a matter of time.

"Good luck finding anyone who'd accept a Targaryen," Arya scoffed.

Ser Davos was beginning to see the thread of logic Lord Tyrion was pulling. "It's not any northern house, Lady Arya. I think my lord Hand is intent on forging an alliance with your house."

All eyes in the room turned to Sansa, who was sitting quietly in her chair, not looking at anyone else. Her back was ramrod straight and her pretty features were void of all emotion. She had put together the logic of Lord Tyrion's plan as soon as the word 'marriage' had emerged from his mouth.

"No," Jon lifted his head and stared at Lord Tyrion. "No. Absolutely not. She's my sister!"

"Your cousin," Tyrion reinnervated. "You share a familial bond but you are not siblings. Sansa and Arya are not your sisters, and Bran is not your brother. They are your cousins. You need to start thinking with that distinction."

"I promised Sansa, she would never be forced into a marriage again," Jon rasped. "Joffrey nearly had her killed. Ramsay Bolton was a monster."

"She didn't marry Joffrey," Tyrion pointed out.

"No, your father married her off to you, to keep her close and in constant torment by your family."

"Jon –" Sansa interrupted.

"Which brings me to another problem," Tyrion stated loudly, "Petyr Baelish met with the queen before I left. He asked for Lady Sansa's hand in marriage to secure the Knights of the Vale."

"Does he know about his graces' new status, as nephew to the queen?" Ser Davos asked.

Lord Tyrion set his wine glass down. "No. He was hoping we would be ill informed of his ambitions. Varys has made it very clear Lord Baelish is intent on eliminating all competition and claim the Iron Throne himself. Possibly very soon. Queen Daenerys sees marriage between House Targaryen and House Stark will cut Baelish off completely, and give the Knights of the Vale no excuses not to join the battle against the undead. It's possible he would pursue Lady Arya should Sansa be unattainable."

"Let me put your mind to rest on that account, my lord," Ser Davos said. "Lord Gendry and Lady Arya were wed just two days ago here in the Godswood. Lord Baelish couldn't separate them without arousing suspicion."

"Oh, I hadn't heard the two of you were wed." Tyrion raised his wine glass to Gendry and Arya. "Congratulations. It seems you've routed him soundly in that respect."

Neither Gendry nor Arya smiled.

"It still leaves us with the marriage alliance." Lord Tyrion continued. "Baelish will do all he can to undermine your position, your grace –"

"I'll do it," Sansa said quietly but firmly.

Jon rose from his chair, the nervous energy flowing from him in waves. Sister or not, he never wanted any woman to be married against her will and better judgement. He strode to kneel next to her, urging her to meet his gaze. "You don't have to do this. Not after everything you endured with Ramsay. I won't allow it."

"You're not forcing anything on me," She said bluntly. "Lord Baelish is overplaying his hand. He'll be locked out of gaining Winterfell if we marry. He'll never expect it."

"Sansa," Jon sighed sadly.

"We need the houses united with you," Sansa pointed out. "I had no choice of whom I married Lord Tyrion, and was essentially sold to the Boltons. I won't give Littlefinger what he wants. I trust you, Jon. I'll agree to the alliance."

"A promise of marriage will not suffice," Lord Tyrion pointed out. "You'll need to wed right away."

Sansa nodded, and directed her attention to Jon. "If you can speak with the other houses, we can marry tomorrow."

Jon nodded stiffy, and asked his Hand, "Ser Davos, will you assemble the heads of the northern houses, please. We should speak with them as soon as soon as it is convenient."

"Of course, your grace." Ser Davos nodded.

"Lord Baelish will fight you on this," Tyrion counseled. "You will need to prove your marriage beyond a shadow of a doubt. I would recommend you find a trusted few to swear to the legitimacy of your vows."

"A bedding ceremony?" Sansa said incuriously. Memories of her wedding night with Ramsey flashed before her eyes.

"It would wipe away any doubt." Tyrion acknowledged.

Jon looked vaguely uncomfortable with the proposition. "We don't need an audience."

"No, your grace," Ser Davos agreed. "But as Lord Tyrion says, a trusted few which are above reproach."

"I've seen your cock before," Tormund said. "Wouldn't be anything new to me." The wildling volunteered.

"And I will," Arya volunteered. "Sansa is my sister, I won't abandon her."

Tyrion nodded. "I would also recommend Brianne of Tarth. That should provide more proof than anyone would ever need."

A knock sounded at the door. All eyes swept to Ser Davos, as he walked to the door and placed his ear near the paneling. "Yes?" the Onion Knight asked.

"Lord Howland Reed has arrived to see the king."

Lord Tyrion raised his glass in a mock salute to the sea of astonished faces. "Right again, Brandon Stark."

XxX

The King in the North met Lord Howland Reed in the courtyard of Winterfell. Although pleasantries were exchanged, Jon said them without thinking, his mind still absorbed with thoughts of his sudden change in status. Lord Reed was not unsympathetic.

"I gather Lord Tyrion already told you." The Crannogman said bluntly. The folk of Greywater Watch were as straightforward as their liege lords.

Jon simply nodded, his eyes full of sadness and despair. "You and my fath-, Lord Stark, both of you knew and didn't tell anyone. Even when I led the army back to take Winterfell, you never said a word. Why?"

"Your mother made Ned promise to keep you safe. Prince Rhaegar had already fallen at the Trident. Your mother knew about that. You were all she had left in the world. Your safety was paramount to everyone at the Tower of Joy. If Lord Stark and I hadn't arrived so soon after your birth, it's possible Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent would have spirited you away to the free cities with the rest of your kin."

It was an aspect Jon hadn't thought about. What would his life had been like if he'd always known who he was and the identity of his birth parents? No place to call home, no siblings to grow up with. Running every day of his life and hiding who he really was.

Lord Eddard has ensured he'd grown up in a stable and supportive home, safe from most dangers which would plague a lesser born child. The worst he had to contend with was Lady Catlyn scowling at him and calling a bastard.

"I'd never thought of that," Jon remarked, his imagination circulating with the conversations he'd had with Queen Daenerys about their formative years.

"Your cousin, Bran, sent a raven to me. He said I needed to be here on this day to speak to the noble houses on your behalf. He also sent a task for you to accomplish."

"A task?" Jon asked feeling weary. "I can't ride away on the hunt for something if I don't know what it is."  
Lord Reed nodded in the direction of the Winterfell crypts. "Go into the crypts. There's a blocked off portion near the tomb of Beron and his wife Lorra, make enough of an opening to get in and out. There's not much rubble there. I helped your father stack it myself. Be back before the meeting of the northern lords tonight. Take your direwolf with you."

"What will I find when I get there?" Jon asked, curiosity burning in in his veins.

"You'll know when you see it. Your father left something inside the crypts which will support my story. Even I don't know what it is. But you must find it quickly. Go."

Jon nodded, feeling more out of sorts and confused than ever before. As he whistled for Ghost, he made a turn to Lord Reed, who was still watching him intently from the courtyard.

"Quickly!" Lord Reed said.

Jon lit a torch at the doorway of the keep's crypts. He remembered walking by the statues when he was younger, his head full of stories Old Nan used to tell him about Jonnel "One-Eye" Stark, Barth Blacksword, and the famous Bran the Builder. Jon had never seen the resting place of the great builder, but he'd always assumed it was somewhere in the lowest levels of the crypts.

He didn't pass the statue of Lyanna Stark, instead he turned a corner, and passed another long row of tombs, to the area belonging to Beron and Lorra Stark. When and Robb had been young, the two of them had played hide-and-seek in the crypt, so he knew each row and passage by heart.

All of them except the collapsed areas.

Just as he remembered, the passage next to Beron was blocked off, several large hunks of rock taking up space from the narrow corridor behind it. Taking off his cloak, Jon began pulling and piling the largest pieces at the top of the collapsed area on the ground and out of the way. It may have taken him an hour to make a decent dent in the rubble, but when he pulled a large stone out, a rush of stale air greeted him from the hidden corridor.

He'd pulled enough of the rubble away to kneel and squeeze through the opening, Ghost jumping up and following him into the dark passage.

There was no light save the torch in his hand. As he eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Jon noticed names he'd remembered listing to during his lessons with Maester Luwin. Most of these tombs were old, browned from dripping water and age.

But there was something simmering in the darkness, a growing white reflection which had him doubting the aptitude of his eyes to catch light.

There, in the darkness, was an intact tomb, not rough or wary, but rather sad and waiting. As he ambled toward it, Jon made out the words on the pedestal of the tomb.

Jaehaerys Targaryen of Winterfell

It couldn't be.

The date on the stone matched the year of his birth. There wasn't a statue, but there was an intricately carved lid on the burial enclosure. Beside him, Ghost whined and tried to dig at the stone.

"Careful boy," Jon admonished. "Let me get it."

Ghost continued to whine and snort, his breath coming in short little pants.

When Jon was able to push the cover the tomb away, he held his torch out over the space. A metallic flash caught his eye. Something silver. Tearing away at an old cloth, Jon threw the fabric aside, and gasped at what he found.

A silver harp embossed with the sigil of the three-headed dragon.

And three dragon eggs.

XxX

Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!


	11. Chapter 11

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter Eleven

"You don't have to go through with this."

It has been a statement which had been made by more than one person in her family. Sansa smiled sadly, reflecting how her two previous marriages had been brokered with very little of her own input, and both of them had been catastrophic. Now, when she agreed without being asked, there was opposition. Strange how these decisions turned out.

Sansa and Arya were walking the battlements, and stopped to look down on the godswood. There was a deep cold in the air, the type made someone wish to stay beside a warm fire all day. In the light of such changes, the Lady of Winterfell and her sister found it a better prospect to speak freely in the open air, where the wind could lift their voices away from listening ears.

"We need all the northern houses united under our banners. No one is better suited to lead our armies into battle than Jon."

"You're giving up again," Arya said angrily. "Giving in to someone because everyone else demands for you to be obedient. Why should you have to sacrifice anything else just because some silver haired queen expects you to just give in to whatever she has planned?"

"It makes good political sense." Sansa replied.

"For her!" Arya ranted. "Join our houses for what? So, we can make it easier for her to rule?"

Sansa looked at Arya with a mixture of poise and determination. "I'm marrying him because we _need_ to. Not that I ever _wanted_ to be married again. Not after Ramsey. Never after Ramsey. I always knew I may need to wed in the future. Our house is too fragile to stay just as we are. We need alliances, we need to grow our family. We need an extension of what we had growing up if our house is to endure."

"Children," Arya said flatly. "You know what you'll have to do."

"The duty of any wife," Sansa replied airily. "I've never enjoyed the act. Don't know if I ever will."

Arya didn't have to imagine what 'the act' implied when it came to Ramsey Bolton. She would have killed him first if the kennel dogs hadn't beaten her to it.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to ask about you and Gendry. Is everything alright?" Sansa asked. "The two of you seemed to be on the best of terms this morning. He hasn't hurt you, has he?" The concerned look on her face reminded Arya their parents, both concerned and invested in the wellbeing of their offspring.

It was so strange now to talk about sex with her sister. When they were young, the two of them were never terribly close. These last few months had allowed them to get to know each other again, but they still had problems connecting in normal everyday sort of ways. They never spoke of boys, or romance, of courtship. Those years were a blank page in an otherwise very full book.

What did you say to your sister about these things?

Arya likened it to asking about the weather, straight forward and in general terms that didn't sound embarrassing. "It's good. We talk a lot. I think marriage can make people learn to put someone else ahead of themselves. In a good way."

"That's good," Sansa nodded. "He's careful pleasing you?"

It was a blunt question. One a younger version of Sansa would have never asked. Arya decided she liked her sister asking these sorts of questions unapologetically.

"He asks me, and I tell him, or vice versa. I want to see him satisfied just as much as he wants me to be. Gendry is, well, just himself. We've always taken care of each other."

Her memories of the last two days flowed like a river through her mind. Her husband. She was married. It still didn't seem real somehow.

"I'm happy for you," Sansa said bravely. "And I'll admit, I'm more than a little envious. You have someone who loves you, and married you because he loves you."

Arya suddenly felt her heart pulled out of her chest. It was sad to see her beautiful sister, who was so accomplished and capable, denied the one thing Arya herself had found so effortlessly. Love. If Sansa married for political reasons, she may never experience it for herself.

"You don't have to marry Jon. We can find another way to win an alliance." Arya said again.

The wind whipped through the battlements, lifting Sansa's red hair like a banner in the air. With her pale skin and piercing blue eyes, she looked every bit like an indomitable character heroine from a children's tale. Beneath all that formidable exterior, beat the soft heart of a gentle woman.

"I trust Jon," Sansa said quietly. "He's probably one of the few people in this world I do trust. He would beat down every obstacle to save me, kill anyone who harmed me. If he's willing do all that, why shouldn't I marry him?"

XxX

Arya and Gendry said very little as they retired for the evening. Taking turns helping each other release straps, buttons, lacings, and sleeves, they fell into bed. It was several hours before either of them spoke.

Arya was laying atop her husband, staring at the fire burning low in the hearth. Gendry was stroking her back, looking off into a distant point only he could see. The voices from downstairs were growing quieter, as the remnants of the Northern assembly ambled to their rooms for rest.

Just as her sister deduced, they hadn't been happy recipients of Jon's sudden revelation. Some men, whose fathers, sons, brothers, or kin had died in the war against the Mad King, voiced their anger over a Targaryen leading the people of the north.

It didn't matter that Jon was innocent of any wrongdoing. The history of blood and violence wrought by the Targaryen kings was far from forgotten.

It was Sansa who had stood tall, her grace and elocution swaying the hard hearts and angry voices of the assembly.

"My lords," Sansa's voice flowed richly thorough the great hall of Winterfell. "My cousin is no less a Stark than he was before. The bloodline of the Starks, shared by my father, my Uncle Benjen, and my Aunt Lyanna, runs back all the way to Bran the Builder. This bloodline flows hot and strong in every Stark child whether male or female, and is never forgotten. Lyanna Stark was the She-Wolf of Winterfell, and Jon was raised by one of the most honorable men I know, my father. Jon is of the north, and the north remembers. And when we have children, they will be raised here, just as my brothers and sister were, and they will be as northern as any of your own children."

There had been a shifting in the room, murmurs, and discussion. When Jon spoke again, it was with a renewed conviction he hadn't presented before.

"I cannot take back my birth, my lords. Nor can I choose to forget the knowledge which has been delivered to me today. It is our custom in the north for a wife to take the name and colors of her husband when they are wed. I will not do that. It is also the custom for the children to take their father's name. They will not. Lady Sansa will remain a Stark of Winterfell, and should we have children, they will take the name Stark as well. I may no longer be a bastard, my lords, but I know where my home is and who my people are, and the north remembers."

More murmurs, more discussions, more words rattled throughout the room. Lady Mormont, all of eleven years of age, stood up from her seat near the front of the room.

"The king has treated with the dragon queen, and the north stands on the verge of independence for the first time since Torrhen Stark bent the knee. We have a king, who has united armies to beat back the long night, and he has done so without bending the knee or groveling for legitimacy. I don't care if he's the son of Prince Rhaegar, Jon is the dragon raised by wolves, and he brings both the fire of the south and the ice from the north into battle with him."

Brandon Tallhart, the young lord of Torrhen's Square, stood to speak as well. "In the north, the Starks have protected and lead our houses through many trials. It seems clear to me, my lords, that we should have a Stark king who will never kneel to the dragon queen from the south. My question, your grace, is what happens after the war? Will you seek the Iron Throne?"

"No," Jon said loudly. "Let the southerners squabble over their intrigues. I never have nor will I ever want the Iron Throne. I will not involve northern men in a war to win it. We will have a free and independent north. I will not seek more."

Arya and Gendry had watched as the men overwhelmingly reaffirmed Jon as the King in the North. Arya imagined the sound of their salutations could be heard all through the castle. It was a sacred moment for the people of the north, the kind which would be told in stories in centuries to come.

If they made it through the war ahead.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks for all the wonderful reviews! Your feedback means a lot to me! Thank you all so much!**

XxX

Chapter 12

The wedding ceremony which took place between Lady Sansa Stark and Jaehaerys Targaryen of Winterfell lacked the usual pomp expected of a northern union. The soldiers, lords, southern allies, and free folk witnessed the marriage with a mixture of curiosity and solemnity. The bride was cloaked in a silver-grey garment of her own making, with the proud stark direwolves embroidered on the front. The couple making their vows in the godswood outwardly seemed accepting and calm.

Arya knew her sister well enough to know there was a demure sadness in her posture. Jon, on the other hand, looked nervous. He'd told the younger Stark sister a tragic story of the death of a wildling girl. He hadn't used the word love, but it had been apparent in the way he explained it. But was it really love if someone shot arrows at you? Arya supposed maybe it was, or maybe it wasn't. Love wasn't always a rational emotion.

A feast concluded the ceremony, and while there were all the trappings of a successful gathering, happy exchanges between the married couple was noticeably absent.

Sansa excused herself from the table, giving her new husband a kiss on the brow, moving to greet Tyrion Lannister further down the table. It was hard to believe they'd been married once. Arya certainly couldn't have pictured a more mismatched pair. The Hand of the Queen and the Lady of Winterfell seemed to be comfortable in each other's company, with Sansa sharing wider smiles and soft laughter with each of Lord Tyrion's comments.

Jon had stood to speak at length with Howland Reed, who seemed more comfortable on the outskirts of the celebrations than in the middle of it. Arya could hear their conversation just out of earshot.

"I'm happy to see this day, your grace," Lord Reed said sincerely. "Your mother would have wanted to you to be happy here in the home she loved so much."

Jon's voice was hoarse and a more than a little sad. "Lord Stark never talked about her. I never understood why."

"Your mother was a beautiful and spirited woman. She possessed a fierceness and capability for combat. I remember the tournament of Harrenhal. I'd been set upon by three squires, who beat me bloody. Your mother fought them off with a tourney sword, bound my wounds, and insisted I sit at the Stark table with her and your uncles. It was the night King Aerys knighted Jamie Lannister. I've only seen your mother cry twice – just before her death, and the other that evening of the tourney feast, when Prince Rhaegar sang a song so sad and beautiful, it made her weep."

"I still don't know what to think of him, Prince Rhaegar, I mean," Jon said slowly. "All my life I've heard stories-"

"There's a difference between what we learn in stories and the facts surrounding them," Lord Reed interjected. "I only saw the prince, your father, from afar, but from what I could tell, the people of the south loved him. It was more than fear and duty that bound people to him. I didn't know it then, but at the Battle of the Trident, he was fighting to protect you and your mother from Robert Baratheon and his rage against the Targaryen dynasty. When Rhaegar fell, crushed to death by Robert's war hammer, his last word was one name – 'Lyanna'."

"You can't be sure he said that," Jon said hoarsely.

"I was there. Your father and I heard it. Your parents loved each other fiercely, so much so that Lyanna eloped with the prince to be his second wife, and Rhaegar in turn fought to keep your mother by his side. It was a doomed love to be sure, but it was a love match all the same."

It must have been difficult for her brother-turned-cousin to hear truth after accepting a fouler version of his birth for so long. Even to Arya's ears, the truth of the tale was so much sadder than anything she could dream up.

"When you see your cousin Bran again, have him show you what he's seen of your parents," Lord Reed said encouragingly. "And if you could, ask him to unravel a mystery for me."

"Of course, I'd be honored to ask. What is it you need to know?" The king responded.

"During the tourney of Harrenhal, The Knight of the Laughing Tree challenged and defeated three knights in a display of skill which was loved by all the smallfolk."

"I know that story," Jon said with a small grin. "Old Nan told us about the knight with the mismatched armor and how he told the knights to teach their squires honor as ransom for their possessions."

Lord Reed smiled warmly. "What she may not have told you was how the Knight of the Laughing Tree fought on behalf of the Crannogmen. I don't recall seeing Lyanna Stark or your Uncle Benjen in the crowd but I did see the younger Stark brother standing near the squires in the receiving field. I've always guessed your mother fought for my house as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. After all, Prince Rhaegar had been charged with finding the mystery knight, but after an extensive search he claims he never found him. It wasn't too long after the tourney that he and your mother eloped. Awfully convenient, don't you think?"

XxX

An hour later, Gendry watched his wife, Tormund, and Brianne of Tarth accompany the king and queen out the hall and to their marriage bed. After spending so much time in his wife's company, the seat next to him felt empty, and he couldn't help but feel a type of pity for the newly married sovereigns. As a common man, he would have been free to marry just about anyone he pleased, provided a goodfather was pleased with the size of a tradesman's purse. But his circumstances had changed, first with his elevation in status and just recently with his marriage to Arya. But he'd always known his parents were never married. What was it like for the king, he wondered, to learn your whole life story up to yesterday had been an absolute lie.

And it had been a disappointment as well. Gendry had looked forward to having a brother.

Lord Tyrion flopped down in the chair next to him, reaching toward a half-filled glass of wine.

"I'm happy to see you looking so well, my friend," Lord Tyrion said taking a drink from his glass. "Marriage suits you. Heaven knows a union to a Stark looks better on you than it ever did on me."

"You make marriage out to be a new suit of clothes, m'lord Hand." Gendry said smoothly with a hint of disagreement.

"Better a beautiful suit which occasionally scratches around the collar than a chain which chokes the life out of you slowly. I know which one I prefer."

Gendry gave a non-committal grunt and took a gulp of his own ale. It would be an hour or more before Arya had completed her duties to her sister and they could retire to their own chambers. He was leaving in two more days, and Gendry wanted to make them last as long as possible.

"I wish you both had more time to spend as man and wife. It doesn't seem quite fair to marry and then march off without knowing when you'll return."

"Everyone here would agree we would all want more time to prepare for what's ahead," Gendry replied. "But I go forward with more confidence, now that I have a cousin beside me, and our allies and friends with us when we meet the undead army near the Wall. I should have left a week ago, but I couldn't stomach leaving Arya without marrying her first."

"A fine choice, if I say so myself. She's a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in an enigma. If the stories are true, she can certainly hold her own on the field of combat."

"What are you getting at, m'lord?" Gendry asked, a feeling of suspicion rising in his mind.

"Nothing much. But I was wondering if your wife would like to journey up to the Wall with us."

"What?" Gendry exclaimed. "Are you mad?"

"To see her brother Bran," Lord Tyrion explained. "Your wife knows her way around a sword. She could be one of a few people charged with protect her brother to free up more men for battle."

"No! Absolutely not!" Gendry replied. "I'm keeping her away from the war to protect her, not push her into danger."

"It's not like you're giving her a tin sword and a leather helm and swatting her ass to say, 'seven blessings, send them all to hell.' Like I said, it's an idea. One I think her brother would be keen to try should he see it is necessary to do so."

"I won't let her go through that," Gendry said sternly. "She's survived six years of constant violence. I'll be damned if I'll let her go back to that."

Lord Tyrion slid from his seat, grabbing the wine glass the emptying the last drops into his mouth. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Good night, Lord Baratheon.

XxX

Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!


	13. Chapter 13

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks for all the wonderful reviews! Your feedback means a lot to me! Thank you all so much!**

XxX

Chapter 13

In the thin light before dawn, Gendry opened his eyes slowly. There was still a deep silence through the keep, but he could hear the sounds of horses, servants, and squires out in the courtyard. All that could be packed, had been stored on wagons bound for Castle Black. Soon, a guard would knock on the door to announce the troops were leaving. The wait for the Long Night was over.

All he could see was subtle sheen of his wife's hair as he lay spooned behind her. A week married, and he was leaving to make war on the undead. The prospect of leaving without marrying her had been unpalatable. Now, it was like leaving a gaping part of his chest exposed and at the mercy of the outside elements.

He kissed the back of her head, and saw her twist to face him. There wasn't fear on her face, but rather a stony acceptance which he recalled seeing often when they were younger. Gendry found he couldn't form a smile to reassure her, or force false words from his throat. Instead, he kissed her gently on the lips, and slid from the bed to dress for the journey.

"You been up long?" He asked, trying to find his trousers.

"A little while," His wife replied, sitting up to lean back against the pillows in a comfortable recline. "I couldn't sleep." She was watching him walk circles around the room trying to find the trousers he last wore or the hose he'd laid aside.

It took longer for him to respond than usual. When had he ever become this tongue tied? "The last time I'll sleep in a proper bed for a while. It's all camp beds or the ground from now on. But we had it rougher than that once, didn't we?"

"We did." She acknowledged, and slid out of bed herself to dress. She didn't ask him about packing, or supplies, or anything else for that matter. She picked up her shift from the floor and threw it on quickly. She found her own hose and had both pair on before he'd found his.

Gendry found the trousers he needed and donned them on unsteady legs. "Why you putting those on?" He asked gently. "You should go back to sleep, get some rest."

"I'm going to see you off," Arya said with a neutral tone, making the task sound like she was fetching basket of potatoes from the larder.

Her husband knew better than to argue with her. Gendry pulled on his shirt, and reached for his woolen vest. Arya had forsaken her usual trousers for a long woolen dress folded in the bureau. It was a lovely dark blue shade with silver direwolves embroidered in a circular pattern around the neckline. Her sister must have made it for her.

He was lacing up the first row of his leather chest piece when his wife appeared at his side. "Let me help," she said, "It'll be quicker."

A younger version of himself would have insinuated she was probably happy to see the back of him, but not now. Not when his wife wore a face so blank and distant. Her nimble little fingers were lacing up the third row of fastenings.

Gods, he never wanted to leave her.

"Come 'ere," Gendry said when he felt her cold fingers swipe against his chest, and pulled her into his arms. Where she went willingly into his embrace, she said nothing. After all, what words of comfort could he give her? "I will do everything I can to come back," he said simply. "Everything within my power."

"I know you can't, but it doesn't matter. I want you to," Arya said, sadness seeping in her voice. "I want you to."

"You know I can't," Gendry said, sadness reflecting in his own eyes. "But listen to me. I don't regret any of it, you understand? Not a thing. How could I, when everything I've ever wanted is right here. When you're here with me."

He expected to see tears, or feel her body shake from fear. What he didn't expect was a determined gleam in her eye when she said, "I'd rather we part here than in the courtyard," She attacked his lips, taking control and dominating the kiss. It was frantic, primal, and it made him feel alive.

It was like a flame had been struck. He was lifting Arya's lithe little body in his arms and her legs wrapped around his waist. He somehow placed her on the table and managed to hoist her dress out of the way to feel the warm heat of her against the front of his trousers. The sounds his wife was making was driving him mad. She was unfastening the clothes he had just put on, and in the gray of that newly formed day, Gendry bid farewell to his wife the fashion she wanted.

XxX

The King in the North and his lady wife walked arm in arm through the corridors of Winterfell to the courtyard. They'd been married for two days, and where there had once been nervousness, there was now a noticeable sense of two people reaching an understanding. While Jon had been making the final preparations for the army's move north, Sansa had made her own arrangements to transfer non-essential members of the keep to the safer southern location of Moat Calilin. She was insistent upon staying with a skeleton staff and holding Winterfell during the war. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, she reasoned.

Two nights as a husband and wife were hardly an example of wedded bliss, but unexpectedly, their marriage bed had been a surprising revelation. One had only to look at the beautiful face of the Lady of Winterfell to know she hadn't been disappointed in the least by her new husband.

As they walked through the corridors, Sansa and Jon strived to discuss the last of their pressing concerns before reaching the snowy courtyard. "The Night King has control over the weather, so he may send a storm to disrupt the ravens. Send a letter anyway, and if you can't acquire a raven, send a rider. I'll send what news I can as often as I'm able," he promised.

"Even if my news revolves around sewing and chores, I can tell you how hard Arya will be training in the tilt yard. Maybe I'll learn how to shoot a bow," Sansa said with a small smile.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone," Jon started.

"I knew that before you left for Dragonstone," his wife replied.

Jon glanced to his right and saw a vacant antechamber. He looked around the corner, and drew Sansa closer to him.

"I may be gone for months, maybe years. If we have a child, you'll be on your own with him or her." The concern in his voice was obvious.

Sansa nodded solemnly. Tully women were known for their fertility. Her mother had given birth to five sturdy children, and conceived one of them on her wedding night. "We have a good maester now. I'll know in a few months. Do you think it selfish to hope?"

"No," Jon said hoarsely. "Not from you. You're the most unselfish person I know." He stated it with such honesty, she closed her eyes and leaned closer into his warmth. He met his forehead to hers, and breathed the sweet smell of her into his lungs. Not so long ago, he pledged his life to the Night's Watch, and swore to forsake a wife and children. He'd died, was brought back, and now just two days into his marriage, he was destined to make war against a world-ending army.

But for just a moment he had this. The honey sweetness of a red-haired lady, the type of woman he never imagined he would take to wife. All her beauty, gentleness and strength. Her courage, wisdom, and wise council. The type of woman musicians could write about and sing the praises of for generations to come.

Once they'd gotten over the awkwardness of the bedding ceremony, there had been trust and pleasure in their marriage bed. A glimmer of understanding passed through his mind for Prince Rhaegar and Lord Eddard now. The conflict of leaving your wife, newly bedded, and your home to answer a call to war. Few things could come close to the pain of it.

Now there was the possibility Sansa could be carrying his child.

Jon kissed his wife softly and caressed her cheek. "If it's a boy, we should name him –"

"Robb." Sansa said swiftly. "I want to name him Robb. Our-My brother would have like that."

The old jagged pain of losing the young man he had once called brother flared to life again, this time it was tempered with a cooling balm of admiration for naming a child for him. Yes, Robb would have been honored. Jon could feel the rightness of it.

"You're right. God, he would have. Alright, Robb. And if it's a girl –"

"Lyanna, for your mother."

Jon was caught off guard. "Not Catelyn, for your own mother?"

Sansa smiled sadly. "My mother hated you for something that wasn't even your fault. I don't want to name our daughter for someone who'd treated you so poorly."

"She loved you, Sansa," Jon countered.

"But she gave nothing to you," Sansa replied, a tinge of anguish in her eyes. "She should have been kind. She should have been a mother to you. She should have punished me for being so horrible to you when we were younger. I don't want you to be reminded of that. I know how badly it hurt you."

"I forgave Lady Stark a long time ago," Jon said kindly. "I would name any daughter of ours in her honor. She was a Lady of Winterfell, and a woman who loved her children fiercely."

Sansa nodded thoughtfully. "We will name our second daughter whatever you wish. So if you are intent on Catelyn, you'll know what you have to do."

"Come back." Jon replied.

"Come back _home_." Sansa agreed. "I'll be here waiting."

XxX

Ser Davos had finished the last bit of pottage in his bowl, and made his way to the keep's courtyard. The men who had already been assembled were in formation on the King's Road. The Onion Knight saw the king bidding farewell to Lady Arya with a firm hold of a brother to his sister, while Lady Sansa bid Lord Gendry goodbye with a peck on the cheek. Words were exchanged, as were small smiles and wishes of safe travel. Lord Baratheon turned to embrace and kiss his wife passionately before mounting his horse. Whatever had needed to be said, the couple had found the time to say it privately.

King Jon and Lady Sansa's parting was not as physical, but Ser Davos had the sense of seeing two people bidding each other farewell, and hoping for the best. The king kissed his wife gently, whispered something in her ear, which caused the lady to nod in agreement. He then turned to his own waiting horse.

The Onion Knight mounted his steed, and cantered over to greet his king and the stag lord. "Morning." Ser Davos greeted. The two men greeted him in turn. Davos turned to the Stark sisters, standing a little apart from the growing fray. "I hope to see both you ladies again." He said in parting. "We all are grateful for your hospitality."

"If you could bring them both safely back, Ser Davos, I would be most grateful." Sansa said over the growing din of the courtyard.

"Aye, my lady. I'll do my best." The older man replied, and with a final wave, he and his two companions cantered toward the gates and out of the keep.

The army was already in formation, a long snaking of men marching on the road north. Ser Davos, Lord Gendry, and the king trotted to the front of the column. With each step leading away from the keep, each man in the army was heading further into a large snowy unknown. They were leaving behind all pretenses of a normal life. And the king, who knew from experience, the only certainties in Castle Black was the freezing cold, and a violent death.

XxX

Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!


	14. Chapter 14

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 14

When the King in the North arrived with his troops to Castle Black, they were greeted by the fierce roars of three dragons and the busy activity of a large camp. The Wall hadn't changed much. It still looked solid and impenetrable. And the Night's Watchmen bustling around the grounds looked cold but otherwise at fighting strength.

Jon, flanked by Ser Davos, Lord Gendry, and Lord Tyrion, were escorted to the queen's tent, a remarkable thing of beauty in an otherwise forbidding place. The four men were ushered in, and found the Dragon Queen immersed in a conversation with a familiar face.

Sitting up in a chair, chatting away was Bran Stark. Whatever the young Stark had said made Daenerys smile broadly. It was a contrast of a blinding golden light of a queen, and the darker, mysterious presence of a lean younger man in free folk attire.

For a moment, Jon couldn't breathe. Here was the last remaining member of his Stark family who was still alive, and the gangly young man held the queen rapt to the sway of his words.

Queen Daenerys nodded to the newcomers, which caused Bran to turn his head with excitement. "Jon!" Bran exclaimed with delight. "You're here!"

Jon couldn't help himself. He moved swiftly through the tent and stooped to embrace the young man like a brother. This wasn't the half desperate sadness of finding Sansa, or the anxious hope of seeing Arya. It was Bran; the intelligent and sensitive boy who'd been surrounded and protected by good people both north and south of the Wall. The last time Jon had seen him, Bran had been unconscious after his fall from the broken tower of Winterfell. The boy he knew was replaced by a lanky youth just a few years shy of true adulthood. It was a marvel, and the grace of having the three Stark siblings back in his life again knitted some of the holes in his chest torn asunder by circumstance and sorrow.

Everything seemed possible now.

"I should ring your head like a bell for the worry you've put us all through," Jon said gruffly. "But I'm too pleased to have you back safe, I'll leave the bell ringing to Arya next time you see her."

"As long as Sansa's there to bind my wounds, I'll let Arya have a go." Bran replied with a shaky laugh.

Jon released him, and gave him a once over. "You're taller."

Bran shrugged his shoulders. "Still can't walk. You have a beard."

"A bit."

"I was telling your aunt, the queen, about learning to shoot a bow in Winterfell and how Arya hit the target from a spot behind me."

It was then Jon remembered to adhere to custom and pay courtesy to the other sovereign sitting nearby. Jon was unsure of what to say in light of everything he'd learned about his past. Lord Tyrion had assured him that the queen was pleased with the recent revelation regarding their kinship. He considered himself to be an ally of the dragon queen, and in the past, they had a cordial relationship based on mutual respect. Whether a familial bond would be forged to the strength of the ones he shared with Robb, Arya, and Bran was anyone's guess.

He shouldn't be this wary of her. Deep down he knew he shouldn't. But part of him was so conflicted about how to approach that particular familial subject, the best device he had to begin a conversation was to incline his head slightly. "Your grace. My lady aunt. I'm pleased to see you again." He said the words with such sincerity, he could see the queen was just as pleased to hear them.

The queen smiled graciously, her face lighting up like a sunny day, and extended her hand. Jon held her small hand in his for a moment. She had such a strong grip for such a small woman. The light in her eyes wasn't anything short of happiness. "Nephew, I cannot tell you how pleased your return has made me. What your cousin Bran has discovered has been the one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. I never thought I would have part of my family back. I thought I would be the last of my line."

"You were not the last until your uncle, Maester Ameon died. I overheard him say once, 'A Targaryen, alone in the world is a terrible thing.' He feared for you being on your own so far away. You were in his thoughts constantly. I've thought about him on the long march here. He knew so much. I wish you could have met him."

The queen nodded, and guided Jon to take the chair next to her. "You must tell me more about him soon, as I know Lord Tyrion delivered unwelcome news. I'm pleased to have you back by my side, my Hand."

Lord Tyrion smiled and bowed. "I couldn't agree more, your grace."

"Lord Gendry, Ser Davos, your company is most welcome here. Please all of you, sit. We have much to discuss." The queen gestured to the chairs around the table. They were pulled away to make a smaller circle closer to the fire in the tent.

"Have you spoken to Lord Baelish recently?" Jon asked.

"I take it you've made a decision which he will not find appealing." Daenerys said astutely.

"I took Sansa Stark as my wife three days before leaving Winterfell. If Lord Baelish is intent on taking the Iron Throne, it will be difficult to do so without the north. I've asked Arya to stay in Winterfell to help guard my wife. I fear for her safety now that we're wed."

Daenerys clasped her nephew's hand gently before withdrawing it. "Lord Baelish is still operating under the assumption that he can apply pressure in the right places to acquire Lady Sansa. He may petition to marry the younger sister, Lady Arya."

"Arya and I were wed a week before the king and Lady Sansa took their vows," Gendry supplied.

Bran smiled. "You married Arya?" He looked at Gendry with an expression of happy disbelief. "That makes you my goodbrother. I never imagined Arya would wed. How did you get her to agree with that?"

Gendry smiled back at his new goodbrother. "It's a long story, which I promised her I'd tell you later."

Queen Daenerys looked pleased, but thoughtful. "Jon, you and Lord Baratheon have thwarted Baelish not once but twice over. Still, we need Eyrie. The Knights of the Vale are fresh and have not fought in more than the battle for Winterfell."

"We could offer his lordship another young lady from the north," Ser Davos suggested. "Brandon Hightower has a sister and cousin who are both of marriageable age."

"Leaving his lordship to have the pick of the two?" Lord Tyrion remarked. "I'm sure they're lovely girls, but the Hightower name is not enough of an enticement for Littlefinger."

"There are the Manderlys," Gendry pointed out. "The older daughter seems to have a good head on her shoulders. She has a good name and an important family."

"Same thing," Lord Tyrion reminded him. "A Manderly or Hightower girl does not equal a Stark. No other family is its equal. And now a Targaryen and a Baratheon have cornered the market on Stark women. There are no other viable candidates in the north, nor from the Riverlands, nor the Reach, nor Dorne to satisfy Baelish's ambition and finding a noble match worthy of his step-son Robin Arryn, the Lord of the Vale is looking very unlikely. Even if the lad is sickly, unintelligent and unaccomplished, he commands the greatest number of fresh warriors in Westeros."

Jon agreed. "And Lord Baelish is pulling the strings."

"A master puppeteer." Lord Tyrion stated. "Baelish wanted a Stark. Marrying Sansa or Arya would have fit into his lordship's plans nicely. There is no one else we can offer which would have suited him as well."

"I don't agree," Queen Daenerys said confidently. "Let's put him close to power to see how he'll bend it. Lord Robin Arryn is of marriageable age, don't you agree?"

"He's young, but not too young," Lord Tyrion acknowledged.

"Good." The queen said simply. "There is someone who would be most suitable for Robin Arryn."

From the expressions on their faces, no one in the tent liked where this line of thinking was headed.

"Who did you have in mind, your grace?" Ser Davos queried.

"It's quite simple really." The queen replied. "Me."

XxX

It was sometime after supper when Jon could finally carry Bran back to the tent the younger Stark brother was sharing with Meera Reed. Ghost padded next to them, happy from a full belly and a fresh kill he found nearby. Whatever Jon's misgivings about Bran sharing a tent with a girl were swept away when he saw Howland Reed's daughter sitting outside the shelter sharpening a spear and binding dragonglass to the tip. Her face was contorted in concentration, quick fingers binding the dragonglass firmly in place. She seemed satisfied with the work and finished it off.

"Meera." Bran yelled. "This is my brother, Jon." He said it so easily Jon had almost forgotten how much it meant to hear it.

"Cousin, Bran." It pained him to correct the younger man, but it was necessary. It was just enough of a separation to keep his marriage to Sansa above board.

"You're my brother in every way that matters." Bran said quietly. "That will never change. It will never change for Arya, and it wouldn't have mattered to Robb or Rickon either."

"It's not the same for Sansa," Jon pointed out.

"And it's good the two of you were never close," Bran shot back. "She never saw you as a brother. It made it easier for you to marry her."

Jon said nothing, but he mentally agreed.

Meera held the tent flap open for Jon as he carried Bran inside. "Hello, Jon. I've heard a lot about you."

"Lady Reed." Jon greeted.

"So formal. Should I call you your grace?" Meera replied.

"Whatever you prefer," Jon said gravely. "You've traveled with Bran a long time in a place where titles have no meaning. Come, Ghost."

The white wolf panted happily has he joined the humans into the tent. Jon ensured Bran was comfortable in a cot and helped him sit upright. The tent was cold, and a small brazier sat unused in the center. Meera looked unapologetically at Jon and stated, "We're used to the cold. We haven't lit a fire since we came here. No need for one as we have shelter."

"Its fine, Meera." Bran was trying to sit up higher in his cot, and submitted to a simple elevated spot. "I'm sure we can start one if we need it."

"For the light, at least," Jon agreed. "I'll see to it."

Ghost sauntered up to Bran's cot, and leaned against it, nudging each man until they obliged him with a scratch behind the ears.

Meera accepted the subtle request to leave. "I'm off to fetch some more dragonglass. You need anything, Bran?"

Bran shook his head. "I'm fine. I have my brother with me."

"Well, then." Meera looked wistful for a moment, the memory of Jojen springing fresh in her mind. "I'll be off."

"Lady Reed," Jon said quickly. "Thank you for caring for Bran. It means more to me than you'll ever know."

Meera acknowledged his words with a nod. "It wasn't just me."

"I know," Jon replied. "But you're still with him. And your father should have arrived by now. He's been missing you."

"He didn't say that," the young woman smiled.

Jon couldn't help but smile in return. "No, but it's what I could tell by the look in his eyes on the ride up here. Go see him."

Meera left the tent with a final smile for Bran, leaving the cousins alone for the first time in nearly a decade.

To Jon, the years between them seemed a wide gulf. But he knew Bran had been able to see pieces of the past and the present, and wondered he didn't see their meeting differently.

"I saw you at Caster's Keep," Bran started. "Meera, her brother Jojen, Hodur, and I were taken captive by the men who killed your commander. I saw you fight them from afar. "

"What?" Jon was astonished. "You were right there? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted so badly to see you, to talk to you. I yelled your name, but you couldn't hear me through the sound of the battle. Jojen said if you saw me, you'd take me back to Castle Black. So I didn't try again. I'm sorry, Jon."

Jon nodded sadly. "He was right. I would have taken you back with me. What exactly did you do to find the Three Eyed Raven?"

Bran described his journey north to find the old Bryndn Rivers, the last greenseer. Of Jojen Reed's death, and meeting the children of the forest. Of training to see visions through the weirwood trees. The vision of the Night Knight. Fleeting the Three Eyed Raven before his training was complete. The death of Summer and Hodor.

Being saved by wraiths by Uncle Benjen.

"He's alive?" Jon could hardly believe it. It has been so long since anyone had seen his uncle. He'd given up hope for his Uncle's return. No one could have survived in the North for so long.

"He's living a half-life, Jon." Said Bran sadly. "The children of the forest put dragon glass in his chest to keep him from turning. He would have been a wraith when he died had it not been for them. Now he fights the army of the Night King when he can, picking off the roaming wraiths north of the Wall. He saved Meera and me, and made sure we made it back to safety. Uncle Benjen can never come back as long as the Wall is standing. I'm so sorry."

"He rode out to patrol north of the wall not long after I arrived to take my vows to the Night's Watch. He never came back. Part of me hoped he was holding on. I wish I could see him, talk to him one last time," The sadness in his words touched the heart of Jon's younger cousin. "I want to ask him if he knew about my mother."

"He's your one relative who's stayed the same, hasn't he?" Bran remarked. "Father became your uncle, and Aunt Lyanna became your mother. But Uncle Benjen is still the same."

"Aye, and I'm grateful. He was only adult who was always happy pleased to see me. When he called me nephew, he said it so proudly."

"And he would be here if he could, but the magic in the Wall keeps him north." Bran acknowledged. "I could see the regret and sadness in his eyes, Jon. He wishes things could be different. Uncle Benjen is fighting to keep the white walkers at bay. He's bought us all precious time."

Jon nodded. Ghost lounged against him, pressing his cold nose into Jon's chest.

"Did you really see her?" Jon asked quietly, not daring to hope. "My mother. And Prince Rhaegar. Is it true they loved each other?"

"Here, take my hand, I'll show you."

Jon looked at Bran skeptically. "Show me what?"

"Everything."

XxX

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	15. Chapter 15

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 15

"Lord Baelish to see you, my queen." The unsullied guard announced. Queen Daenerys agreed to an audience with the defacto Lord of the Vale. Lord Tyrion was present, steeling himself for a delicate dance of getting what was needed, while keeping the dance partner constantly on their toes. It was a tiresome task, to be sure. Some days, there just wasn't enough wine to justify the payoff. Baelish was a slippery eel, and did not foster much love among the nobles or soldiers of the Eyrie. Maybe that could work to their advantage.

Sitting in her tent, well coifed and outfitted for the cold, Daenerys greeted Petyr Baelish as one would an honored guest.

"Your Grace," Petyr Baelish greeted smoothly. "Lord Hand."

"Lord Baelish," Daenerys procured her best stately smile. Regal, but not intimidating. No need to spring the trap until the poor animal waked willingly into it.

"You're looking well, Lord Tyrion," Baelish began. "I trust your journey to Winterfell was safe and uneventful."

"Traveling anywhere in winter is bound to have some form of excitement," Tyrion replied. "And we are in a war. These are certainly interesting times."

"Indeed."

"My lord, I have asked you specifically due to a rather strange turn of events. I felt it would be beneficial to all involved to be up front about some unusual news I received regarding the King in the North."

"The whole camp has been abuzz, your grace. All the soldiers from Winterfell are speaking of Jon Snow being the true born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. They are saying he is now Jaehaerys Targaryen, King in the North."

Daenerys nodded. "My lord Hand reports the truth of this. A man named Howland Reed witnessed the death of Lyanna Stark and kept the secret of her son's birth away from the hateful eye of Robert Baratheon."

"It's an intriguing story. One that seems plausible."

"Not only plausible, but now a widely-accepted truth." Daenerys was aware of her nephew's wariness of such a change in his circumstances, and how many southern houses would willing accept such a change in circumstances. "I am not well acquainted with the northern houses, but they were willing to embrace him as their own, given his mother's name and Lord Eddard Stark's honor."

"There's still a small matter of a marriage between your brother and Lyanna Stark." Lord Baelish countered. "It's rather convenient there were no witnesses to such a ceremony. Your nephew may still be baseborn, regardless of who sired him."

Daenerys nodded. "I've thought of such myself. However, there's a maester in the Riverlands who sent confirmation of such a marriage by raven just two days ago. The ceremony took place on the Isle of Faces."

"Northern marriages are invalid unless they are performed before a weirwood tree before the old gods." Lord Tyrion pipped in. "The maester said it was the southernmost point in Westeros where one could perform a ceremony in front of the old gods and the new."

"Convenient the Isle of Faces is close to Harrenhal." Lord Baelish supplied.

"Quite," Lord Tyrion nodded.

Daenerys attempted to guide her guest into a new direction. "My nephew has a better claim to the Iron Throne than myself, but he has agreed to forgo his claim at present in exchange for northern independence. I am willing to allow such an alliance, provided he continues to support my reign and can deliver the northern houses to the battle of the long night."

"And he'll agree to such a thing?"

"He already has," The queen affirmed. "And he's made good on our agreement."

"How?" Simple question. One that required a smooth answer.

Lord Tyrion kept a steady gaze on Lord Baelish. The Queen's Hand took into account every tick, every muscle feature, and every subtle sign of how his adversary was thinking. "He took the Lady of Winterfell to wife, of course."

Tyrion had to acknowledge how well Baelish seemed to accept the information as if they were commenting on the lack of vegetables on a dinner table.

"Lady Sansa." Baelish remarked smoothly.

Tyrion nodded as if deep in thought. "Cousin marriages aren't out of the question. Lady Sansa and Jon – or should I say Jaehaerys were raised in the same household, but under vastly different circumstances. It took some convincing, but the lady agreed to it, of course. I can certainly understand her reluctance, given how she was treated by her last husband. Their marriage has united the north under one banner, and it has pledged its forces to the war ahead."

"They are siblings, or as good as," Lord Baelish countered. "How do we know their union is even legal? Your nephew, Jaehaerys, could be honorable like Lord Tyrion, and forgo consummating their marriage. I can foresee how a man seeking to protect a woman would forgo duty out of affection."

"The marriage was consummated, I assure you." Lord Tyrion assured. "There were several witnesses, two of whom are currently in camp. From the ramblings, I was able to make out by the free folk in the room, both husband and wife were able to fulfill their obligations."

"Did they now? There are those would doubt the word of a wildling." Baelish monotoned.

Lord Tyrion took a sip from a wineglass he had waiting nearby. Keeping up the façade of courtesy to their guest took more resilience than the one previous glass of wine could procure. "Brienne of Tarth was there as well. As Lady Sansa's sworn sword, she was present for the bedding. I think it was for more of her own piece of mind than for the bride's. From Lady Brienne's report, the Lady of Winterfell seemed quite at ease afterward. Not bad for a man who spent his formative years keeping himself celibate for the Night's Watch."

Lord Baelish sighed, mimicking a young suitor who'd been gravely disappointed. "I have always had a deep affection for Lady Sansa, but if your nephew has married her, then my petition is for naught, I'm afraid." Baelish directed his gaze to the dragon queen. "In times of war, it is easier to make strong alliances at the altar of marriage than with just a few words on paper."

The queen nodded. "I couldn't agree more. Which is why I wish to make an offer of marriage to your stepson. I would like him to take his place in our cause as my prince consort."

"Not a king?" Baelish asked not unkindly.

"There is only one ruler here, my lord." The authority in Daenerys' voice was more than apparent. "I know what it's like to play second person to a would-be king, and I found it does not suit me. My consort will be given every courtesy, but he will not rule me, nor will he have a say in my affairs of state until he can provide me with an heir."

"To keep your nephew at bay," Baelish acknowledged.

Daenerys continued. It was time to bait the trap. "I would prefer to have a united Westeros working toward defeating the Night King. Can I count on you to negotiate a contract of marriage to the Lord of Vale? I know Lord Arryn looks to you for advice and support. I would hope you could provide the same level of care and consideration to me personally. The rewards for such loyalty to the crown would be great."

The trap was set.

Lord Baelish seemed to consider the queen's offer. "I have been in the service of Westeros for most of my life. I had hoped to have a wife by my side to begin building a future away from all the trappings of government."

The poor civil servant card. It was a brilliant move to play.

"The Riverlands are in disarray and the Reach will soon be leaderless." The queen pointed out. "Those two areas are in need of men to govern them. Deliver the Vale to our cause, and I may be inclined to give you dominion over both."

"And my need for a wife?" Lord Baelish prompted.

"These are times of war, Lord Baelish." The queen's words were a mix of subtle promise. "Why do you need a political bride from the north when I can offer you more wealth than you've ever imagined?"

"There's still the matter of rebuilding my house," Littlefinger continued. "I can hardly be expected to create an heir on my own. The nature does not work that way."

There was a Targaryen glimmer in the queen's eye, which Lord Baelish recalled seeing at Harrenhal when the Mad King entered the tourney hall. It was a look which was unapologetic and carried with it the heat of dragon flame. "There were only three witnesses to the bedding ceremony. My nephew may be convinced to set aside his wife after the war, stating their marriage was a benefit to the war and nothing else. The witnesses can be dealt with should it come to that. If Jaehaerys wishes to rule a land of ice and snow, so be it. He may even wish to take a woman of the free folk to wife. It may suit his needs as well to keep the peace. If Lady Sansa is as damaged as I have heard, she may find it a relief to leave the north and find a place to bloom in the gardens of the Reach. My Hand said she's quite fond of the people there."

Lord Baelish nodded. "Lady Olenna and the late Queen Margery were most kind to her."

The Queen's Hand pushed the final enticement forward. "The Starks have taken their revenge on House Bolton for its betrayal and cruelty. But Winterfell holds too many sad memories for Lady Sansa. She told me so herself. When she was younger, Sansa was quite keen to be Lady of the Reach. I imagine she may be receptive to the idea of being married again and residing in a place where new memories can be made."

The plan seemed plausible. Lord Baelish considered the idea intently. "This is of course, contingent upon whether the Lady Sansa is breeding an heir for the north. Your nephew may be less inclined to let her go should she be carrying his child."

"Jaehaerys was married for little more than two days, my lord," Daenerys stated. "It would be unlikely he could have sired a child so quickly."

That seemed to be the resolve he needed. "If your advisors will draw up the contract, I will send it by my own messenger to Robin Arryn, and encourage him to accept it. We all want this war to be over, so we can seek shelter from the winter winds in peace."

"An excellent idea," Lord Tyrion stated brightly.

XxX

"My courses have stopped."

Arya looked up from sharpening Needle to stare at her sister for a moment. It was the type of announcement which should have been made in a feast hall full of people with a husband at her side, not a comment made in the closeted warmth of a private solar.

"It hasn't been thatlong," Arya countered. "You're sure?"

Sansa set aside her sewing to meet her sister's curious gaze. "It's been just over two months, and I haven't bled. Not once."

"And you're worried?" It was a curious thing to be concerned about, Arya thought.

"I'm afraid it might be stress or wishful thinking." Sansa said sadly.

Arya leaned on the table and sheathed Needle back in its casing. "You were married to Lord Bolton's son longer, and he didn't manage to get you with child."

Sansa's face went blank when she spoke of anything to do with Ramsay Bolton. "That's because I practically drowned myself with moon tea after I arrived at Castle Black. Brianne found some in the settlement nearby. I wept with relief while I bled that month, and the month after that, and I was grateful for each month in its turn. I never wanted to bear any child by Ramsay Bolton. And the possibility of his house living on was snuffed out the moment I bled through my small clothes."

"And you're grateful you could be carrying now?"

Sansa sighed and looked at the fire. "Marrying Jon changed everything." She said the words gently.

"You were only together two nights. I think conceiving a child takes more time than that."

There was a confidence in Sansa's words and demeanor. "Mother conceived Robb on her wedding night. And this sounds mad, and I can't explain it, but I knew my body was ripe when Jon and I were wed. I could sense it when I woke up that day, before we even stepped into the godswood. There was a heaviness I could just feel. Does that sound strange?"

Arya shook her head no. There were mysteries in life she couldn't explain herself and trusting those small inner feelings had saved her life more than once. "When will you know for sure?"

"I'll give it another month, I think. Anything could happen early on. I don't want to write to Jon now and tell him later I lost his heir later."

"Jon would never blame you for losing a pregnancy," Arya reasoned. "Why don't you see the maester? He could tell you right away. He may be able to help."

"Maester Wolkan served Roose Bolton." Sansa said flatly. "He never lifted a finger to help me when I was Ramsay's prisoner. I know he swore to Jon he'd serve Winterfell, but I don't trust him. I think he's more interested in keeping his place than serving our family. And then there's Lord Baelish." He has contacts everywhere. Who knows which one of them could slip something into my food or place something slick on the floor to cause a fall? If I were to lose a child early on, it would just be an unfortunate circumstance. But if I'm showing, and everything is going well…"

The wariness in Sansa's voice made the implications of her words all the clearer.

Arya nodded. "All eyes are on the maester. He's under more pressure to see your pregnancy through to the end, regardless of his loyalty. And if Lord Baelish wants the iron throne with you at his side, he'll need to keep you healthy and able to have his children. He won't risk your ability to conceive."

The precariousness of the situation was breathtaking. The men may be at war with an undead army, but at least that was something which could be remedied with a well-timed swing of a Valerian steel sword. It was the hidden enemy, every watchful in the shadows of the great game, which could swoop down in a moment and take everything away. Especially something as fragile as a child.

It was a situation their mother had never prepared them to overcome.

Sansa's gaze moved to her still flat abdomen. "We should carry on as usual until I begin to show. Then I'll make an announcement to the household."

"That should buy you some more time." Her sister agreed. "I'll keep an eye open for a midwife. Find someone who can help."

Sansa moved a hand to her lower belly. She could feel a slight rise there, just as she had that morning. No monthly courses, a swell in her womb, and sensitive breasts. Everything she knew to be clear signs of pregnancy. This should have been a happy time, one of rejoicing, a feast, and prayers of thanks to the Old Gods. Maybe she would go to the weirwood tree in the godswood and try praying again. Not now. Not until she'd begun to show. Sansa didn't want the half promise of a child not yet born. A babe in her arms would be another way to keep Littlefinger at bay. One more person keeping him from fulfilling his dream of holding power. As long as an heir to the north remained a safe little secret, no danger could come to him or her.

"Thank you, Arya" Sansa said softly to her sister. "Whatever you can do to help, I'm grateful. And hopefully Jon will be grateful too."

Arya smirked, turning to add one more log to the fire. "Who do you think asked me to stay behind and look after you?"

Sansa smiled faintly. "Jon asked you to look after me? Isn't it my job to look after my younger sister? Besides, what about you? Any chance you're carrying my niece or nephew?"

"None," Arya replied solemnly. "I asked the maester for moon tea the day before I married Gendry. I drank it every day we were together. I've had my courses twice, now that I think about it." Even to her own ears, the words sounded harsh.

Sansa was concerned, but far past judging her younger sister. "You didn't tell Gendry?" She asked gently.

"I told him I wasn't ready to be a mother. Not yet." There was a maturity and wisdom in Arya's face which Sansa knew had been put into place by years of uncertainty and hardship. "He said he'd go along with whatever I wanted while the war was on. But afterward, he doesn't want to wait too long. He's always wanted a family."

"He already has one, while he has you." Sansa agreed softly. "What a handsome and good natured goodbrother you brought me. If he'd been fat and boorish like King Robert I wouldn't have grown to like him so much."

"Gendry looks like his father, but he's his own person. He grew up with nothing, and no one to rely on."

"Except you," Sansa surmised.

"Yeah," Arya nodded. "Except me."

They were quiet for several minutes. Sansa picked up her sewing and Arya let Nymeria into the room. The direwolf padded over to greet the Lady of Winterfell with a polite wag of her tail, and laid her furry head on Sansa's lap. The direwolf's nose sniffed and nudged the little swell of her belly gently. For a moment, Sansa couldn't breathe. How could an animal know something she'd only come to realize herself?"

"Boy or girl?" Arya asked when she saw Nymeria's protective gesture. She poured herself another glass of ale and took a long draught.

"It doesn't matter," Sansa replied. "Just as long as it's healthy. I know that's not right to say. The King in the North should have a male heir for his firstborn."

"A girl is just as capable," Arya declared. "You're the Lady of Winterfell. If there's anyone can raise a girl to be Queen of the North, it's you."

"I think I'll need some advice, though. I should write to Lady Olenna in Highgarden. She was always kind to me. Well, kind _and_ politically astute. Her granddaughter Margaery was a true friend when I lived in King's Landing."

"You want to offer Lady Olenna a place with us?" Arya looked intrigued. The Queen of Thorns had brokered the alliance with Dorne. She was a powerful personality and sounded like a woman Arya would enjoy getting to know.

"I don't think she'd accept," Sansa said regretfully. "She's the last of her house, and I doubt she'd leave the Reach now that winter is here. Still, I would like to see her again. I should add her name to the list of people I have in my head."

"What list?" Arya remembered the list of people whose lives were to be extinguished by her own hands. Cersei Lannister, The Mountain, Lady Melisandre were the three names left.

"The names of all the people I've lost. Hopefully, I'll have enough children to bear them." Sansa replied.

"Who's on your list?" Arya sounded interested.

Sansa rattled the names off like a rote prayer, gently and methodically. "Robb, Rickon, Eddard. Lyanna, Margaery, Jayne. Loras, Brynden, Mordane, Shae."

It was a list of lives. All of them taken away before their time. And it was longer than the death list Arya had recited to the gods when she was younger.

"Ten names? Seven hells." Arya sputtered. "If you're adding Lady Olenna, that's eleven. How will you and Jon find the time to have eleven children?"

Sansa chucked softly. "It's a long list, I know."

"What did Jon say he wanted? Lyanna?"

Sansa shook her head. "I wanted it for our firstborn girl. He assumed I wanted Catlyn, for our mother. I told Jon he could name our second daughter whatever he wanted provided he came back."

"You didn't want Catlyn?" her sister asked. Sansa and mother had always been close, much more alike than Arya could ever hope to be.

"You know she hated Jon. I find it hard enough to forgive myself for how I treated him when we were younger. I still can't seem to forgive her, though. It's the saddest thing. I can't help but think what our lives would have been like if father had told mother the truth about Jon. I think she would have been kinder, more of a mother to him. She was his aunt, after all. She just didn't know it."

"I think she regretted it, in the end," Arya mused.

"What makes you think that?" Sansa asked.

"I dunno. Just a feeling."

XxX

Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!


	16. Chapter 16

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Extended chapter so I can finish this story off quickly. I have a ton of stuff to do IRL.**

XxX

Chapter 16

Scores of dragonglass arrows were released into the air, darkening an already gloomy sky. Catapults complimented the volley of arrows, delivering round after round of dragonfire laced rocks. As each rock sailed through the skies, it carried with it a tail of green fame, making the horizon glimmer in a ghoulish display of strength.

The dead kept coming. The arrows and the siege weapons seemed to cut through large swaths of their forces, but it didn't stop the constant onslaught of dead trying to climb up the wall. The climbers were more active at night, when it was hard to spot them clawing their way determinedly up the side of the ice.

It was the free folk who had shared what areas of the wall would be the most vulnerable, and so far, the combined strength of Westeros was able to keep undead army from breeching the icy fortifications. But the effort to keep them all in check was an exhausting exercise.

Gendry had taken his shift at the top of the wall, scouting for a break in a wave of the undead to call down a few pots of dragonfire to expel a buildup of wraiths attempting to take the wall.

Gods, it was fucking cold.

King Jon had said the Night King wielded winter like a weapon. If the temperature of tonight was any indication, the Night King was ready to wage unholy war on the wall and soldiers protecting it.

A new war hammer was strapped to Gendry's side. The hammer which had belonged to his father, King Robert, was back in his tent. It had taken longer than he had anticipated, but Gendry created a new Valerian steel war hammer in the forge of Castle Black. It was much lighter and more controlled than the weapon he'd stolen from the Red Keep. Gendry had emblazoned the sigil of a stag and a hammer on the neck of the weapon, and gave it the name of Night's Bane.

The name seemed to fit the hammer rather well.

There was so much to watch from this part of the wall, high up on the ice. There were some of the southern lords who preferred a more direct offensive, with flanks of men advancing just behind a steady barrage of dragon fire catapult strikes. But it was a risky move. Dragonfire was unwieldy and unpredictable to handle outside of an oriented attack. Should some of the barrage weapons not perform as expected, full rows of men would parish.

Men they couldn't afford to lose.

The Night King had an estimated 100,000 undead in his army, all of which required no sleep, no supplies, were immune to the cold, and were blindly obedient to their leader's objectives. The just over 70,000 men united to hold the wall would need to shave down the undead army bit by bit and not make any decisions which would have the living join the ranks of the undead.

Eight hours into his shift, Gendy could see a column of wraiths steadily climbing up the side of the wall about a half mile up the line. Some of their equipment must have failed, or the men in that area were thinning due to the weather.

Fucking snow. Fucking cold.

It was a slow slog up the line, given how narrow the battlements were and how many men were still shooting and firing down on the wraiths. Yelling as loud as he could over the din, Gendry saw King Jon leading a new group of men to the weak point in the wall.

Without invitation, Gendry reached for his war hammer, and yelled for archers to start thinning the climbers creeping up the wall. The archers responded, but it was already too late. A small stream of the undead were breeching the battlements.

Weapon in hand, Gendry took aim at the first wraith to jump the wall, and landed a solid hit to its head. The figure fell into the deepening gloom. From there, Gendry adapted the stance of a wood cutter, using his hammer to bash the head of each wraith into the Wall, crushing the skull and destroying it forever.

It was hard and exhausting work. He wasn't sure how long he'd kept up the pace until he was relieved by a group of unsullied archers let loose a line of arrows which cut down the steady progression of undead up the side of the ice.

Thanking the newcomers for their assistance, Gendry stood up completely and took in a full breath of air. One fire out, and another one sure to follow. He looked around, scanning the battlements for the king. There were unsullied, northmen, southerners, and a few free folk scattered about, but no sign of the King in the North.

Never a good sign.

A few minutes' walk to a new collection of men and Gendry found King Jon, directing a new volley of arrows down upon the climbing wraiths.

"Bring them down!" Jon yelled over the wind and sounds of battle. "Start with the top and work your way to the bottom!"

Somehow, and Gendry wasn't quite sure how it happened, but a dead wildling on the top of the wall sprang back to life. The almost impossibly blue eyes of the wilding locked on the King in the North, who was busy directing archers to the upward assault.

"Y'grace," Gendry shouted. The king couldn't hear him, or he was too involved in the battle to acknowledge the call. The wraith was creeping closer, gaining speed with each forward motion. The only weapon Gendry had was his hammer. No one else was going to save the king in time. "Jon! Down! Now!"

Hearing his name, the king ducked down, his sword hand arching gracefully in a semi-circle, cutting the undead wilding at its knees. At the same time, Gendry threw his hammer with the full force of two hands, knowing it might be lost forever over the side of the wall.

War hammers could be replaced. There was only one King in the North.

The hammer made contact with the undead man full in the face, crushing the skull and laying the body out flat on the ground. The war hammer stayed impacted in the wildling's skull, not moving from its intended target.

Gendry kept running to the king's side, hoping his wife's cousin wasn't sporting an injury from the attack.

"You alright?" Gendry asked the king over the shouts of the other men. The act of throwing the hammer seemed to attract a lot of attention. He'd put aside protocol by helping the king up to his feet. "You aright?" he said again when King Jon continued to be mute.

"Yeah," the king panted. "Thanks. Good throw."

It was a good throw. Gendry looked over at the skull of the undead wilding. The area above the neck was a bloody frozen pulp. The Night King couldn't reanimate a man if he didn't have a head. Gendry walked away from the king, reached for his war hammer, and wiped the blood from the head. It was a surreal moment of calm in an otherwise tumultuous ocean of sound. And the significance of such a moment wasn't lost on Gendry at all. The last time a Baratheon and a Targaryen had fought at close proximity, it had been against each other, Gendry's father facing off against King Jon's father. Robert Baratheon versus Rheagar Targaryan. It had been a moment which defined the destiny of the kingdom.

But this was different. It was a Baratheon hammer which had saved the life of a Targaryen king while the two of them fought of an undead army. It was certainly a change from what anyone a generation ago could have expected.

Gendry turned around and yelled for more reinforcements when a cold pain ripped through his side. A bony arm, not yet over the side of the wall, gripped the handle of a blade which tore open his side. The wind whipped up into a gale, and the temperature dropped. Gendry took a breath. It was like breathing in ice. He tried to take another breath, but his lungs didn't seem to be working.

"Gendry!" The king yelled desperately, his sword hacking down on the bony arm which had downed his friend.

There was blood, and it was cold, and the last thing Gendry could recall before the shock set in, was staring at the white sky and wishing he could see his wife again. The memory of her, smiling down at him she straddled his lap made him want to reach out and hold her close.

"Arya." Gendry said simply, and he let the darkness take him.

XxX

"It's not your fault," Ser Davos read the guilt in his king's eyes. Lord Baratheon was wounded, and hopefully with some warmth and care, he would recover. The lad was lucky, that was for sure.

Jon didn't seem appeased. "We barely had enough men to defend the wall a few hours ago. We're spread too thin. Lord Gendry ran a half a mile to my aid, threw his weapon at the head of a wildling who'd been resurrected by the Night King, only to be hacked in the side by a wraith. I owe him my life."

"Again, it's not your fault," Ser Davos explained. The old knight walked alongside the King in the North toward the tent where Lord Gendry was recovering. "A stray wraith managed to scale the wall, and the sudden cold gave put him into shock. The best thing you could have done was to have him taken away and light the dragonfire pits at the bottom of the wall so everyone could take cover from the big freeze."

The freeze had risen up sharply and without warning. As his friend lay bleeding out, Jon had yelled for fire archers to light the dragonfire pits and pick off the rest of the climbers with flaming arrows. The rest of the men were rushed into the warming huts, struggling to catch their breath and warm their hands from such a sudden below-freezing gale.

It had been a marvel how Lord Baratheon had managed to survive the blood loss and the sudden cold.

But Ser Davos' words were not a comfort. Nor were the reports that the dragonfire was still burning at the base of the wall, keeping the attacking wraiths at a distance away while the Night King used his powers to bombard the camp with the coldest weather Jon had ever experienced in his life.

The northern families and wildlings had experienced cold weather before. Even the unsullied seemed to take the cold temperatures in stride. But the Dothraki horse lords cursed the weather. They had finally begun to wear the furs and woolen garments Queen Daenerys supplied for them.

Still, the storm raged, and while it did, the battlements shifts were carefully timed for fifteen minute rotations, to ensure none of the men were dying of exposure. It was a delicate act of keeping a watch on the undead army below without providing the Night King with bodies to resurrect in the battlements. They didn't need any more disadvantages than they already had.

There were no guards at the front of Lord Gendry's tent, but Jon was relieved to see Ghost laying contentedly beside the travel cot of the stag lord, keeping watch over the sleeping man. Making his way to the bedside, Jon gave Ghost a scratch on the head, and sat beside his friend.

"Gendry," Jon asked quietly. The noise and the whine of the wolf at his side roused the younger man out of his dozing.

"Whaaa? What time isit?" The Baratheon lord asked, words slurred, blinking his eyes and focusing his gaze to the visitors.

"It's rather late, my lord." Ser Davos said with a smile. "Not that it matters. How are you feeling?"

Gendry tried to sit up, the effort making him wince from the wound in his side. The king helped him, ensuring the pain was less burdensome with some support from the good side of his body. "Been better," Gendry grunted. "Hurts worse than burning myself. Wasn't expecting that."

"Flea bottom boys are hard to kill," Ser Davos said philosophically.

"Couldn't kill us with a club. That's what I heard the wealthy folk say of the poor when I was growin' up. Seems a wraith nearly managed what a gold cloak never could."

"You took a risk you shouldn't have," Jon said sternly. "And you saved my life nearly at the expense of yours. What were you thinking?"

"Valerian steel or not, I can always make another hammer. But you're the King in the North, and, we can't replace you. You're Arya's brother. She would never be the same if you didn't come home."

"You're her husband," Jon said just as strongly. "She'd never be the same if _you_ don't come home."

Gendry nodded. "I know. I'm half afraid to tell her what happened. She may just jump on a horse and join the army. Speaking of which, a rider from Winterfell dropped those off." He gestured to a leather bag obscured by Ghost. "The man is from house Mormont, and he's staying in camp until we can write a response. He was under orders from Lady Sansa to stay with the Mormont warriors under the pretext of picking up correspondence for Lady Lyanna. No one else knows he was tasked by Sansa to deliver her messages."

"She's been on her guard since Lord Baelish joined our camp," Jon said warily, reaching for the leather bag and sorting through its contents. There was a new letter from Sam, who was still studying at the citadel. Bran had two letters from his sisters. Meera Reed had two as well, also from Sansa and Arya. Thank you letters, most likely. Jon had one from a Lady Olenna of Highgarden, which was strange. He had never met the lady of the Reach before. Before he thought more about it, Jon pulled out four more letters. Two for Gendry and two for himself. The proud direwolf seal denoted Sansa's letters while a hammer and stag were stamped on Arya's notes.

Gods, he missed them both and for wildly different reasons.

Jon handed Gendry's letters to him. "Need help reading them?" He offered.

Gendry nodded and tried to lay back down. "Yeah, thanks. Maybe Sansa's first. I'm out of practice and I can't sit up for too long."

"And Lady Arya's letter?" Ser Davos asked.

"What my wife writes isn't for your eyes, Ser Davos." Gendry said cheekily. The older man guffawed.

Ser Davos and Jon helped Gendry recline back into bed. Ser Davos took the first letter, opened it, and began reading. Jon busied himself with organizing the pile of correspondence in his hands. He tucked the two letters to Bran in his pocket to deliver later.

"My dear goodbrother, I hope this letter finds you well. The plants in the glass gardens have grown taller, and soon they should be able to harvest. We will have the first batch of peas harvested for our table by the end of the month. These should be followed by onions, radishes, cabbage, carrots, and potatoes. I have been spending more time in our glass gardens, as it has gotten so cold outside. It should make winter easier to bear if we have fresh food for the table, and we should be able to give some of it to other houses in need."

"I pray daily for your safety, and for the wellbeing of all the men at the Wall fighting to defend us during this war. I know it may not be possible, but it would ease my mind if you could speak with my husband after he receives his most recent letter from me. You are part of our family now, and I wish for you to be privy to our news. You have been a good husband to my sister, and a loyal friend to Jon. He will be in need of your patient ear as well as your ability to be truthful and outspoken. We look forward to having you home with us when the war is done. Your goodsister, Sansa."

"That doesn't bode well," Ser Davos remarked.

Without hesitating, Jon broke the seal of his own letter. Heart in his chest, he hoped fervently there wasn't a crisis at home. His eyes scanned each line on the page. The first few words of salutation gave way to news he could have never expected.

"What does she say?" Gendry asked. A look of expectation on his face. He seemed to have steeled himself for bad news as well.

Jon was still processing the words on the page. Without emotion, words emerged from his throat. "Sansa. She's with child."

They'd been together two nights. He and Sansa had spoken of it before he left. But confronted with the reality of it, part of his brain shut down. Jon couldn't think. The enormity of the words clutched at his chest and at his conscience. Why hadn't she told him sooner? Was she afraid? Gods, it didn't make sense. He should be happy. But saying that made him think of growing up a bastard in Winterfell, being told he should be grateful for what he had.

Should. Should. Should.

"This is a good thing, ain't it?" Gendry said in a relieved voice. He reached for the letter, and having to pull it away from Jon's deathly grip. The stag lord tried to read the words, but from the low light or the exhaustion, he couldn't make them out.

"Ser Davos?" Gendry passed him the letter. The Onion Knight wanted to read the words aloud, but given the reaction of the King in the North, he summarized them instead.

"She was waiting to let us know until she was sure she was carrying. She let her dresses out to hide her condition. She felt the babe move, and it has become too difficult to keep it a secret anymore. The whole of Winterfell has been told, and now it's only a matter of time until the whole of the north knows."

"She's afraid," Jon said bluntly. "Not for being on her own, but of Baelish. The queen told him I could be persuaded to set Sansa aside at the end of the war if he'd pledge the knights of the Vale to the war."

"Bullshit," Gendry said bluntly.

Ser Davos added, "The queen needed a way to keep Lord Baelish invested long enough to secure her marriage to Robin Arryn. Now that the marriage is sealed, and the lad has been married by proxy, Baelish will be named Lord of the Reach as well as protector of the Riverlands. The Queen has command of the Vale and the armies. Your wife should be safe, your grace."

"Baelish has always been there, reaching out for her just out of sight." Jon supplied, a sudden burst of anger lacing his words.

"Piss on him," Gendry spat. "I may not know my goodsister well, but I know she's capable and brave. And I know Arya will protect her sister and any babe she carries."

"Don't forget Lord Balish threw Lady Sansa to the Boltons to advance his own agenda." Ser Davos reminded the king. "He may have saved her life once, but she'll never forgive him for that."

"Sansa told me the day we married that Baelish sees himself on the iron throne with her at his side. He's obsessed with her. I don't trust him."

"A man obsessed is rarely a man to be trusted." Ser Davos reasoned. "So, don't. He's a tiger in a cage, outwardly docile, but ready to pounce at your throat should the moment present itself. Please, your grace. Lord Baelish played the game, and he lost. Your wife is far beyond his reach now, and even more so now she's breeding an heir. He won't risk her life while she's carrying. It's not to his advantage."

Jon's face remained frozen and ashen. The shock of the news still eating away at him from the inside. "I need to see Bran." He said woodenly.

"Here, take this. Read it again but keep it out of sight," Ser Davos said as he refolded the letter and handed it to the king.

Jon slowly pushed the letter into the folds of his cloak near his chest. "I'll be back later." The words sounded like crushed ice underfoot.

The two men left in the tent were silent for a long time, staring at the tent flap, and wondering how to pull their king from the edge of an icy emotional cliff he'd unexpectedly encountered.

XxX

Bran heard the whine of Ghost before he saw him, trotting to the tent with Jon behind him. The youngest Stark saw his adopted brother different than most people. He wasn't just a king or an entitled lord. He was Jon. Jon held his sadness and troubles closer than most. He was prone to be moody, even when they were younger. It was a burden to grow up a bastard, and even after they met again, Bran could see the pain of his brother's past was still following him as closely like a shadow.

This time, the expression on Jon's face was vacant, but Bran could reach out and feel the anxiety spilling from his brother in crashing waves. The voices he could hear just outside his visions whispered to him.

"Sansa," Bran said firmly, dispensing with a casual greeting. "What's happened?"

"Can you see her?" Jon said urgently. "Is she alright? Is there anyone in Winterfell who wants to hurt her?"

Confused, Bran reclined in his cot. "I haven't had a vision of anyone for several days. I've been warging into birds to scout for the Night King."

"Bran, I need to know. Is she alright?" This wasn't a casual request.

Something had set Jon off enough to seek him out instead of sending a letter, and whatever it was, it had disturbed him greatly. "I'll see if I can find her," Bran said, surrendering himself to the power of the weirwood trees nearby. He wasn't sure how long he searched, but he found his sister, asleep in their parent's room. The room she and Jon shared now they were married. The fire in the hearth was low, and a scratching sound came from the door. Turning over in the covers, she sighed, stretched out her legs and rose from the bed. A whine came from behind the door. Nymeria wanted in. Not pausing to pull on a robe, Sansa opened the door and Nymeria trotted in happily, circling the Lady of Winterfell a few times and cocking her head questioningly.

"You're not going to give me a moment's rest, are you?" Sansa asked the direwolf.

Nymeria cocked her head again, huffing a little in her nose.

"Alright, fine." Sansa said, donning a robe from the back of a chair and taking the warm seat next to the fire.

Something about her looked different. Her hair was still long, but she looked, well, prettier. Like she was glowing from the inside. As she reclined in the chair, Bran could see a visible swell of her belly, round and full now that the looseness of her gown had changed its shape. Nymeria sniffed the bump, nudged it several times, and laid her head next to it. Sansa smiled and stoked soft fur behind the direwolf's ears. There was a softness in his sister's eyes, and a sadness there too. She must be missing Lady, her own direwolf.

Bran surfaced from the vision, gasping for breath. Jon must have been sitting there for some time, head in hands waiting.

"What did you see? Was she alright?" Jon asked. The concerned edge to his voice clipping his words.

"Sansa's fine. She's-" Bran was having a hard time finding the words to describe what he'd seen. "She looks good. Prettier than I remember. Nymeria was with her. But she's swollen around the middle. I think she's with child."

The temptation to ask was too great. "Can you show me?" Jon asked.

"I can show you the past, not the present." Bran said sadly. "I haven't learned how to do that yet."

"Can you try?" Jon persisted.

Bran's eyebrows furrowed. "It's different than seeing the past. Trickier. It took a while to find her the first time."

"Please, Bran. I need to know." The words were coming from a man haunted by the past and overwhelmed with concerns in the present.

Bran nodded, holding out his hand to his cousin. Jon took Bran's smaller hand in his, and found himself blacking out for what seemed to be a few minutes, before opening his eyes and walking through the open door to his chamber. Sansa was there, dozing in a chair by the dying fire. Nymeria's head lying contentedly in her lap.

Sansa was beautiful, just as he remembered. Skin like fresh milk and hair a vibrant red. The pale white of the nightgown she wore gathered up around her waist. The swell of skin under the fabric made him swallow hard.

With child. There weren't words to describe it. She was carrying their child. He was very nearly a father. Something he never imagined he could possibly become. It hadn't been his intention or fate to father a child. Now here was the proof chiseling away at the vows and beliefs he'd carried during his time in the Night's Watch.

 _I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children._

Even before he'd joined the Watch, Jon never felt worthy enough to marry anyone, let alone a lady like Sansa. But she was his wife now. A wife of two days. One awkward wedding night and three gentle, tender, and fulfilling exchanges later, and the proof of his marriage was apparent for all to see.

Jon remembered words he shared with Maester Aemon at Castle Black when he was a younger man. He thought he'd been ready to spend his life at the wall, just as the men of his family had served for a thousand years. How naive he'd been. How anxious to get away and prove himself to everyone who'd disparaged him for being a bastard.

" _Tell me, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children?" Maester Aemon asked._

 _Jon words had been sullen. "No."_

" _So they will not love. Love is the death of duty. If the day should ever come when your lord father was forced to choose between honor on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do?"_

 _Jon had paused to think a moment. "He... He would do whatever was right. No matter what."_

" _Then Lord Stark is one man in 10,000." Maester Aemon said. "Most of us are not so strong. What is honor compared to a woman's love? And what is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms? Or a brother's smile?"_

" _Sam told you."_

" _We're all human. Oh, we all do our duty when there's no cost to it. Honor comes easy then. Yet sooner or later in every man's life there comes a day when it's not easy. A day when he must choose."_

" _And this is my day? Is that what you are saying?" Jon's words had been angry and accusatory._

 _The man who unknowingly was his uncle, sighed in return. "Oh, it hurts, boy, Oh, yes. I know."_

It hurt now, more than Jon could say. To have all the things he'd always secretly craved. A home. A woman who wanted him. The admiration and respect of others. A babe on the cusp of being born. The sadness of seeing it all in a vision instead of with his own eyes. All of it in danger of being snatched away before he'd ever really had a chance to hold onto it with both hands.

"Can she hear me?" Jon said aloud. He saw Bran walk around the room, at ease with the surroundings.

"I don't know." Bran said quietly. "She's sleeping. She might be receptive to it."

Jon could feel what he wanted to say, but none of the words would come out. He wasn't built for this, sharing words and thoughts with his sleeping wife.

Bran seemed to sense his hesitation.

"It's Sansa. Just talk to her. About anything. I can't keep you here much longer."

Jon moved to kneel beside the chair, looking at his wife's resting face and the pronounced swell of her middle. "I'm not good with words. Never had to be. I just want you to be careful and safe. I want to come home and be with you again. See if I can make you smile at least once a day. I want to have you look at me and know we're thinking about the same thing. I want to come home and never leave. I never want to leave you and our family ever again."

Sansa moved, her head shifting in her sleep. "Jon." She said, her hands grasping at the soft hair of the direwolf. "Jon."

Theirs was not a romantic love of poetry and song. It wasn't a doomed love and marriage like that of his parents. Jon respected Sansa, needed to protect her, wanted to see her happy. It was a constant devotion he knew could go much deeper. Deeper to where the real love he'd wanted since he was younger, was waiting to be discovered. He could feel it. If only he could stay alive. If they could just overcome the Night King, he could come home and set about making her his wife come to love him just as he knew she could.

"Wait for me," he said, the depth of his heart reverberating in his words. "Be safe until I come back. Please, Sansa."

XxX

Sansa awoke from a dream, hearing Jon's voice in her ears and the raw emotion in his words. She could feel his presence in the room, just as if he'd just stepped out of it. The babe in her womb fluttered, as if sensing the inner turmoil of its mother.

"Jon was here." Sansa said aloud to Nymeria. "I could feel him. I could hear him."

The direwolf made a sound of affirmation, a short half bark before she began panting and nudging the swell of Sansa's pregnant middle again.

"Bran must have brought him." Sansa continued. "He's worried for me and the baby."

Sansa made soothing strokes where the babe seemed to be moving. After a few minutes, the babe in her womb stilled, and Sansa stood to stretch her aching back. At four months pregnant, she was aware of the amount of time left until she delivered. It seemed like forever until she could hold the baby in her arms. Gods be good. Let her and the baby survive. Let Jon come home. Let them be a family.

Everything she thought she lost, she could rebuild again. Just let her husband come home. And let Arya's husband arrive safely beside him.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	17. Chapter 17

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 17

" _You're so much taller than me," Arya said to him they lay side by side facing each other in bed. "It doesn't seem fair."_

" _Are you saying you look up to me?" Gendry smiled, the connotation pricked at his bride's pride a little, making her lips form into a thin line. A line he knew he could kiss away in an instant if he wanted to._

" _Maybe I should stand on a chair, so I can look down on you instead."_

 _There was a cheeky grin on his face as his wife studied him with those fathomless blue grey eyes of hers. "If it pleases m'lady to do so," her husband agreed. "I think I know something you'd like better." He hitched one of her legs over his hip and rolled her to sit astride him. She smiled then, the kind of expression which broke the somber line of her mouth and transformed it into a beam of summer sunshine._

" _Now I can gaze up at you, just as I've always fancied, and you can look down on me to your hearts content." Gendry said, his hands wondering to lock with hers. She was soft and warm, her hair floating down to her shoulders. He'd never imagined to see and touch such a woman in his life. Let other men say he hadn't married a great beauty, and he'd call them daft. No other woman had the fierceness and enormous heart of Arya Stark._

 _His wife used his hands to push herself up, and moved against him. He shuttered. "I like seeing you this way," Arya said with a smile, relishing the advantages of her position._

" _At your mercy?" Gendry shot back. She was a feast for his eyes. And the way she was swaying slightly made his breath hitch._

 _His wife leaned forward to kiss him again. "Happy." She said between kisses. "I like seeing you happy."_

Gendry woke from the memory, feeling an ache in his heart and another below his waist. The discomfiture only added to the painful injury in his side. Everything hurt. One week spent on his back and under the close watch of a maester, and the pain hadn't faded much. At least he could sit up without help. Swinging his legs over to one side, he put on his boots and hoisted himself out of bed. The wound in his side had been restiched a few days ago with silk thread, a tiresome and irksome task made bearable by the company of Ser Davos and a few mugs of ale.

Drawing on his warmest clothes, Gendry went in search of the old smuggler, who had been keeping close to the king and Brandon Stark since the news of his goodsister's condition arrived. Bran had been moved from the tent he shared with Meera to Jon's larger one. Lady Reed had accepted a place with Missandei, helping her acclimate to the cold weather and the culture of Westeros. However competently Missandei served her own mistress, it had been a relief for her to roam the camp guided by Meera Reed. The younger woman's blunt and open manner seemed to be a welcome one. The lady of Greywater Watch and a former slave turned royal handmaiden were becoming fast friends.

Nodding to the sentry at the tent, Gendry pushed aside the cover and found the king at council with some of the free folk and a few of the northern lords.

"Yer Grace, we can ride out just beyond the wall to lay down more dragonfire. Put it in a pattern, wait for them to walk into it before we light it up. That should take more of them bastards out."

Gendry was offered a seat by Ser Davos, but nodded his head no. He'd been resting long enough today. It felt good to stand up and under his own power.

"How many men do you need to do this?" The king asked.

"Fifty men, plus a sledge with supplies," the man replied.

"We'd have to open the gate to let you in and out," Jon replied. "That door was sealed up by the Night's Watch before we arrived to keep the dead out."

"There's been no sign of the wraiths for a week," one of the free folk pointed out. "Every good hunter needs to set up his traps before it can be sprung."

"And every good hunter knows there's a quiet before a large animal attacks." Tormund growled.

"I have a war council today, my lords, and I will bring these ideas to our allies. We may be able to use some of them, or none at all. Tell your men to rest, eat, and regain their strength. We need them for the battles ahead."

The men of the north inclined their heads with a chorus of 'Yer Grace," while the free folk, with the exception of Tormund, sauntered out of the tent. There wasn't any malice in the way they left, but it made the northmen bristle a bit to see their king treated so casually. It had been a cultural difference neither side could seem to come to terms with, and Jon had said the free folk were their allies, and were not subject to traditional protocol. To Jon, there were more important things to be concerned about.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting?" Jon asked Gendry, shooting a look of disapproval. Tormund smirked.

Gendry shrugged. "Needed to stretch my legs a bit. How's Bran?"

Ser Davos checked behind a curtain which had been rigged to hide the Stark boy from view. As far as anyone in camp knew, Bran was too ill to be transported back to Winterfell. He would be staying with Jon for the duration of the war. But the curtain also hid the milky white eyes of Bran Stark when he was warging or experiencing one of his visions.

"Hasn't changed since this morning. He's been there's all day, trying to find any sign of the Night King, but so far, nothing." Ser Davos pulled the certain back to its original position. "There aren't that many animals around, and apart from a few wraith sightings, very little has been found."

"The queen has wanted to use her dragons to circle out and find the Night King." Jon explained. "Maybe we use the dragons to set up more fire pits. In advance. Find a way to pen in the army in three locations, use the fire to keep them all in position, and have the dragons attack from the air."

"How well do dragons fly in the cold or in a blizzard for that matter?" Gendry asked. "Not that I mind seeing a dragon cook up an army of wraiths for dinner. I'm all for it. Who's going to ride those things?"

Ser Davos raised his eyebrows. "It's obvious, the Queen and King Jon."

Tormund growled. "That's two. Still need one more dragon rider for the plan to work. One more Targaryen to rain fire down on the enemy. Where do you find one more little dragon lord?"

"It might not come to that," Ser Davos said. "Maybe the smallest one, what's his name?"

"Viserion." Jon supplied.

"Yes, maybe he can be trained to do what his brothers are doing. That would eliminate the need for another rider we don't have." The Onion Knight had a point, Gendry thought.

The king's forehead furrowed. "They're her dragons. I don't know the first thing about riding one of them."

An unsullied soldier entered the tent. He didn't seem to mind the cold outside, as there was no tremble in his voice despite the frozen temperatures outside. "King in the North, the queen invites you to council."

"It seems we'll have an answer sooner than we expected, your grace," Ser Davos surmised.

XxX

The war council agreed a preliminary scouting party using the dragons would be beneficial. The queen, who was confident the two smaller dragons could emulate Drogon during their task. When someone asked if Jon would be joining the queen on the journey, Queen Daenerys smiled graciously and said her nephew's expertise was needed at the wall while her dominion was clearly in the sky.

Jon nodded in agreement. Someone needed to lead the army while the queen was away.

The council adjourned, and just as they were rising to leave, the King in the North requested a moment with Lord Tyrion and the Queen. From his troubled demeanor, the queen and her advisors would have assumed there were new reports from the sentries on the Wall.

The room was cleared of other onlookers, Ser Davos and Lord Gendry excusing themselves to check on Bran in the king's tent.

Jon remained standing, reluctant to sit. When he was finally invited to by the queen, he could not refuse her invitation.

"There's something troubling you," Daenerys began. "If it's the dragons, we can visit them tomorrow. I know they'd like to see you.

"It's not that," Jon replied. "Though, they have been on my mind today."

"What's wrong?"

"News from Winterfell. Nothing that would be wrong, otherwise. But I thought I should tell you myself."

The queen prompted him with her eyes. Jon took a deep breath before saying, "Sansa wrote to me. She's expecting a child."

Daenerys' looked at Jon with disbelief and pleasure. "That's unexpected, but good news, I hope."

Lord Tyrion's eyes widened in surprise. "An heir for the north? She's that far gone then?" Jon could see the political calculus taking place in the dwarf's mind.

"Four months," Jon said, his words as distant as his gaze for a moment, like he could see the image he was presenting. "She was buying time, she said. Wanted to make sure she wasn't imagining things."

"That's a long time to keep something like that a secret. If it weren't for her Stark honor, some would whisper another man may have sired her child." Lord Tyrion remarked.

Jon glowered at him.

"Don't shoot the messenger. You know how people are." Lord Tyrion countered.

"I don't care about what people think. I'm concerned for my wife's safety." The king's voice was contained, but biting. "You've used her to be bait in a trap."

"Which she gave us permission to do so," The hand of the queen pointed out.

"This is hard enough as it is, trying to find a way to defeat the Night King without wondering if something is going to happen to my wife." The strain of the situation echoed in his words.

"How likely is it he'll plot something?" Daenerys asked her chief advisor. There was no need to mention who 'he' was.

"I think she's safe for now." Tyrion said briskly. "If she's showing, he won't risk her health. He needs her alive and able to conceive if he wants to rally the north. Is your other cousin pregnant as well?"

Jon shook his head. "Arya? No. No, she's not."

"Pity," Tyrion stated. "A matched set would have worked to our advantage." To heirs to the Stark seat of Winterfell would have been too much to ask for.

"I can send a few unsullied warriors to Winterfell," the queen suggested.

"We need men for the Wall," Jon countered.

"And it would send the wrong message." Tyrion continued. "I would suggest asking Lord Varys, see what his contacts can find. Discreetly, of course. Winterfell is a long way from here, your grace. And northers are loyal. That's what you've said."

"Aye, but winter changes people. The cold and the dark, and it drives people to do unexpected things. The wars have shuffled folk away from their homes and whole houses have been swept away. There aren't many certainties anymore except cold and death."

Daenerys attempted to assure her nephew. "Lord Varys will place a few of his contacts in Winterfell. They should be able to pass messages to your sisters informing them of all the comings and goings of the household. Should Lord Baelish try anything, I'll swing the sword down myself."

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	18. Chapter 18

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 18

 _My Dear Sansa,  
Thank you for your last letter. I can't tell you how very pleased I am to hear you are well and have seen to the rebuilding of your home smoothly. The rumors of your short-lived marriage to the Bolton family was a surprise, though I am pleased you have joined in an alliance with House Targaryen. They need you and much as you need them, and from what I know of your new husband, he seems to be the honorable sort._

 _How strange it is to be heading north to see the progress of the war with my own eyes. The new queen has granted me many honors, one of which is the ability to meet your king, Jaehaerys Targaryen at the Wall. I normally would not be up for the journey, but as Lord Baelish is now Lord Protector of the Reach, my duties are largely dedicated to acquiring more allies amongst the beleaguered houses outside King's Landing. Do not misunderstand, I am still head of our house, but as I am the last of my name I must fight to preserve what influence I have left. There is only so much time I have left on this earth, and I intend to make the most of it._

 _I look forward to seeing you in Winterfell before heading to the Wall. Your invitation to stay was too compelling to refuse. It would do my heart good to see you again._

 _Lady Olenna Tyrell_

XxX

"You should rest before she arrives," Arya told her sister as she walked into the hall from the tiltyard. Sansa was taking a hands-on approach to preparing for Lady Olenna's visit, ensuring the few people still in the castle could make the best impression possible.

"I feel fine," Sansa responded. She was seven months gone with child, and while she was tired all the time, the radiance of her features was apparent everywhere she went. From the glass gardens to the pilgrimages she made to the crypts or the godswood, there was not a soul in Winterfell who couldn't feel the castle was warmer or the sun was brighter when Sansa was in their presence.

It was getting to be a bit irritating already.

"You're carrying a babe," Arya bit back. "And you're working yourself ragged. You need to lie down and rest a more."

"I'll rest before dinner if she arrives soon," Sansa replied, supervising the setup of a few more chairs being added to the high table. "I'm too keyed up to lie down right now."

For all her good intentions, the arrival of Lady Tyrell corresponded with suppertime, and as the candles were being lit, the thunder of approaching horse hooves broke the relative quiet of the courtyard. Arya followed Sansa outside to greet the Queen of Thorns just as the formidable Lady Olenna and her contingent of guards dismounted.

Sansa waited only a few moments before approaching her guest. Lady Olenna nodded her greeting before holding both her arms out to embrace Sansa. It was such an unexpected gesture between two noble women, but Arya could see the carefully concealed grief soften a bit in Lady Olenna's eyes as she drew Sansa into her arms.

"Sansa! My dear girl," Lady Olenna said. "How I hoped you were well. And there's so much of you now!" The older lady seemed to marvel at Sansa's condition. "Married two days and an heir on the way? Remarkable! Your mother's Tully fertility has its merits. It seems the Targaryen legacy will continue, Gods willing."

"Lady Olenna," Sansa began. "I'm so happy you've come to see us. I was afraid for you and Queen Margery after Joffrey's death."

"You're very kind, my dear." Lady Olenna said. "I'll fill you in on all that has happened since you left King's Landing. I am most anxious to hear your news, as I'm sure you are eager to hear the same from me." Lady Olenna glanced up from Sansa's hair to stare at the rough looking waif carrying a small sword brows furrowed in concern. "And who are you, my dear?"

"Oh!" Sansa exclaimed. "This is my sister, Arya. Arya, this is Lady Olenna Tyrell."

Arya took in the formative figure of the Queen of Thornes, and it was apparent she held her emotions and poise in firm control. This was no matron well into her dotage. This was a woman who filled a room no matter where she went. Arya was intrigued, but hid her grin.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Tyrell." It was a brief and polite greeting. Arya wasn't one to add more words when they weren't required. A visit from the head of House Tyrell had been a comfort to her sister, and had tried to broker a deal which would have seen her Sansa safe and secure in the Reach, far from the political prison of King's Landing.

"Arya Stark." Olynna Tyrell marveled aloud. "As I live and breathe. You gave the Lannisters many painful hours of worry over the last few years. That's a good thing. Thank you for providing them all with a multitude of fearful and sleepless nights."

"If I could have been a knife in the dark my lady, I would have ended those hours a long time ago." It was a bold but true statement, one which the Queen of Thornes seemed to appreciate.

"Just so, my dear."

Sansa gestured to the door to the keep, allowing the few staff in the yard to assist leading the rest of the company to settle into their accommodations. Lady Olenna required very little preparation for supper, and breaking with tradition, requested a private meal with Sansa. Arya was not offended, and took her own supper with Nymeria in the main hall.

As supper was served in her private solar, Sansa tried her best to be a hospitable and courteous hostess, but found herself measuring out her questions and responses. It was a short meal, as Lady Olenna seemed to have little appetite. After the dishes had been taken away, Sansa settled a lap blanket and foot stool for her guest in front of the fire, so the two of them could speak at length uninterrupted.

"I was concerned the Lannisters would seek to harm you after Joffrey died." Sansa began. "You must believe me, my lady. I had nothing to do with Joffrey's death. I know my disappearance was sudden, but please know I had no part in a plot against him."

Lady Olenna batted away the words with two fingers. "You were never responsible the death of that little monster," she said. "Leaving was the best thing you could have done, given the circumstances. If you'd stayed, you probably would have been executed after a trumped-up trial. Or Cersei would have had you delivered to the Sept of Balor to be killed along with my grandchildren. No, my dear. It was better that you left."

There was a fierce grief in Lady Olenna's face when she spoke those words. The loss of her son and grandchildren had left a deep hole in her soul, and she had very few weapons at her disposal to claim justice. She was seeking vengeance in exchange for aligning herself with the Dragon Queen. And Sansa hoped fervently the older lady would live to see it.

"Though, now that I think on it, you rushed straight from the frying pan into the fire." The bluntness of Lady Olenna's tone shocked Sansa back to her senses. "Marrying a Bolton? And a legitimized one at that? Well, it was a bad move you soon rectified."

Lady Olenna had summarized Sansa's abusive marriage and journey to take back Winterfell into three sentences. It was brief. It was correct. But it didn't carry any of the weight of the hardship and pain she'd suffered. And it left out all the men who'd died to retake her home.

"There's much more to it than that," Sansa said just as bluntly.

"There's always more," Olenna replied. "You were young, you were all but sold to your family's enemy, and you paid the price for it. I could tell you were holding back the details when you first wrote to me. But I can read between the lines, child. I'm sorry it happened. More sorry than I can say. What I hope you'll take away from all this unfortunate affair is to exert your position in a way which would prevent you from having to endure such things again."

Sansa could only nod her head in agreement. "I had little experience with all those things before I left King's Landing."

"Yes," the matron agreed. "You learned to play a very convincing role of the dutiful and obedient noble woman. But you've moved from playing a part to directing the production, so to speak. Which brings me to your new choice of marriage partner."

Sansa didn't blush, but she did cast her eyes down to the floor for a moment. "Jon and I are cousins. We joined our houses to unite the north-"

"Unite the north and ally with the dragon queen to fight against the army of the Long Night. Yes, yes. I've heard this all before. And I asked you this question long ago when I first met you, do you remember?"

Sansa nodded. It had been shortly after her engagement to Joffrey had ended, and the meeting had been both the most petrifying and baffling experiences of her life. The cool and flippant way the Tyrell women had accepted the verdict of Joffrey's behavior had been a surprising introduction to court politics.

"What's this husband of yours, Jaehaerys Targaryen, what's he like?" Lady Olenna asked directly. "Is he kind? Is he a just man? I know he has an upright and honest reputation."

This time, Sansa responded to those questions without being prompted. "My father raised him to be honorable and true to our house. He would do anything to defend and fight for our family. He is good, and kind. When Jon learned he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryan and my Aunt Lyanna, he married me to protect me from Lord Baelish."

"Ah yes, the slippery snake of a man who will someday take the Reach from me," Lady Olenna spat. "I'm guessing Baelish wanted to take you to wife, breed an heir in you, and claim the north for his own?"

Sansa nodded.

"You did the right thing in marrying your cousin, my dear," Lady Olenna reiterated. "It wasn't easy, but you have put yourself outside Lord Baelish's reach. For now, anyway. However, should your husband die on the battlefield, you could be vulnerable again. Thank goodness you're carrying a child. That strengthens your case to remain independent."

"But you think I should marry again? If something happens to Jon?" Sansa asked.

The Tyrell matron tutted. "Marriage brings about its own set of advantages and disadvantages. I'd encourage you to marry again, possibly to someone of the queen's choosing. Any candidate Daenerys suggests would consider you a reward for their loyalty. Still, there aren't many men to choose from, and the list of eligible noblemen grows smaller by the day. I'm just saying, keep it in mind. Have one picked out ahead of time. Someone agreeable and whom you can bend a little without a lot of effort."

Sansa said nothing. The despondency in her eyes told a different story.

"Ah, so you do have some affection for your husband," Lady Olenna surmised. "I'm guessing he has affection for you?"

This time Sansa nodded. "Yes."

"That's a good thing. A man devoted to you will stop at nothing to see you pleased. He'll leave most of the decision making up to you, which is exactly where you want to be."

There was a rightness in that observation which made the hairs on Sansa's arms stand on end. Her husband was leaving most of the decisions up to her, from Lord Tyrion's plan to entice and entrap Lord Baelish to the continuation of conjugal relations after their wedding night. Jon had looked to her to make those decisions, and didn't disparage or complain after she'd made them. He'd trusted her experience and insight; honored her thoughts and feelings.

And he'd made her feel free and confident to do what needed to be done. And more than ever, she wanted the war to be over and for him to return home.

"Lady Olenna, I was wondering if you could perform a service for my husband and me." Sansa said quietly.

"What can I do?" Lady Olenna replied.

"I have no rider at present to deliver a letter to him, nor had he the men to spare to send a rider to me. Would it be possible for you to give him my letters and for one of your men to ride down with his response?"

"Of course, my dear. Consider it done."

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	19. Chapter 19

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 19

 _Lady Olenna's visit put me more at ease than I can say. Seeing her again made me remember how much I relied on her for guidance and comfort when I was in King's Landing. I trust her with my life, Jon. I would have her stay at Winterfell indefinitely should she be amiable to it. She has no one, Jon. And we have no one left to provide the same support we had in our youth. I can think of no better woman to play the part of grandmother in our home. Just imagine. If we hadn't had Old Nan, Maester Luwin, Hudor, Jory Cassel, and so many others growing up, where would we be now?_

 _The babe should arrive any day. I have sewn and knitted my fingers sore, but I cannot rest until our little one is in my arms. I watch for ravens from the north, and hope they bring news of your return home soon. Sansa_

Lady Olenna had arrived at Castle Black from after a short visit to Winterfell, and had been in their camp for over a month. Jon had come to admire the lady for her direct statements and no-nonsense appraisals. Their war council meetings direct and to the point. She'd won over nobles and diplomats with her public displays of strength, and the private conversations she held on the sly. With her fearsome demeanor, even the free folk showed her more respect than any other southern lord.

Jon was in the company of the Queen of Thorns, who had asked for his escort back from a meeting with the dragon queen to retire to her own accommodations. Jon couldn't refuse. Sansa's newly arrived letter had burned a hole in his pocket all day, and it was worth rereading another three times. While he would have rather retreated to his own tent to brood about his wife alone, the ever perceptive Lady of the Reach offered him a glass of wine as an indication to stay. And from her quiet appraisal, Jon could feel a deep conversation emerging.

"Something not to your liking?" Lady Olenna asked innocently, setting down her glass and watching him with cat-like eyes. He had taken an obligatory sip of what was offered, but hadn't been able to resist the temptation of reading his letter one more time while the servants were seeing to the comfort of the Tyrell matron.

"No, it's not that," Jon replied, stroking his face with his hand and folding the letter up carefully.

"What then?"

Jon didn't know if he had words enough to broach the topic. But his concerns were his own, and he voiced them the best he could.

"Sansa writes the babe should arrive soon." He said it so blankly, she must have thought him immune to emotion.

"And that troubles you?" Lady Olenna responded. "It's a baby that's keeping you up at night, rather than the undead army that attempts to breach an ice wall seven hundred feet high? That's certainly different."

"No, it's just a feeling. A sense that history has a way of repeating itself." Jon said softly. "Am I becoming my father? Rheagar, I mean? Fighting a war far away, leaving my wife to bring a child into the world alone? Allowing our babe to grow up an orphan?"

"Rheagar had a king's guard protecting your mother," Lady Olenna pointed out abruptly. She was already well acquainted with the details of Bran Stark's visions. "The prince thought he was leaving her in a safe place with loyal men to protect the two of you. It never occurred to him he would lose the war, or that he would die before you were born. The king's guard would have taken you away to be raised with your aunt and uncle if Lord Eddard Stark hadn't gotten to you first. You would have grown up a Targaryen, never doubting your right to the throne."

"I'm nothing like the queen, or her brother." Jon said simply. Daenerys had spoken with him at length about his uncle. The king had a feeling he would have grown up beating the man senseless for his many transgressions.

"You're more Targaryen than you think," Lady Olenna admonished him soundly. "I spent years in the Targaryen court, and I knew your father and your grandfather. Do you think I can't see the similarities? Exchange the dark hair and eyes of House Stark, and I can see so much of the young Targaryen princes I knew so long ago."

"Like what? A willingness to marry a woman I thought was my sister? Or how they like to take more than one wife at a time?" Jon spat out the words.

Lady Olenna shot him a disapproving look. "That's a little below the belt, even for you."

Jon couldn't hold her gaze. He focused on the floor instead. "I can't say I'm sorry."

Olenna's face was set with a face firm of experience and knowledge. "Your father was a good man, a good prince. He would have been a good king as well, provided he didn't inherit his father's peculiar form of Targaryen madness. I see so much of Rheagar in you. He always worked hard, led by example, and was valiant and noble in deeds and words."

"I learned those things from Lord Stark," Jon stated simply.

"And they were inherent in you before you took your first breath." Lady Olenna countered. "Your Uncle Eddard was a paragon among men. Honorable and noble to the point where it cost him his life. Prince Rheagar was all those things too, although he carried the heavy weight of his father's madness with him wherever he went. He was compassionate and mindful of the struggles of others. It was difficult for him to see his mother, Queen Rhaella, so terribly unhappy. She was a woman deprived of respect and burdened with grief over a multitude of miscarried pregnancies. How many of them were at the hand of her husband? Well, we'll never know, will we?"

"Did the king beat her?" Jon was appalled. What man abused his pregnant wife? It certainly reaffirmed the Mad King's insanity.

"Not in so many words. But there were rumors he became unhinged when they had relations. Thankfully, you seem to be far removed from those tendencies."

Jon shot the Queen of Thorns a surprised look. She gave him a sly smile in return.

"Sansa didn't need to say much to reassure me. I could see it clearly on her face. She told me you were patient and very much a 'man of honor', which was what she needed after being imprisoned by both the Lannisters and the Boltons. I've always been very fond of Sansa. She has a good and gentle heart. If things had worked out differently, she would have been my granddaughter by marriage. Now, it seems I am regulated to being an ally to her husband's family, as opposed to being the great-grandmother to her children."

The heaviness of the lady's posture made her look so much older. Jon noted the exhaustion and grief in her eyes. Here was a matron who reminded him so much of old Maester Aemon, watching powerlessly from a far as his family was torn apart and punished for crimes they did not commit.

" _The gods were cruel when they saw fit to test my vows." Aemon had spat with sadness and fury. "They waited till I was old. What could I do when the ravens brought news from the South? The ruin of my House, the death of my family? I was helpless, blind, frail. But when I heard they had killed my brother's son, and his poor son, and the children. Even the little children!"_

The pain and anguish in his words still echoed in Jon's memory. Aegon and Rhaenys. His brother and sister. Lost to him before Jon was even born.

Lady Olenna's grandchildren had not been guilty of anything save Cersei Lannister's blind ambition to crown herself queen. And now in the winter of her life, the matron held little back and lived boldly with nothing to lose. No one was left to cultivate the Tyrell garden. The Queen of Thorns was alone, save the few bannermen at her side and the political allies in their camp.

And she was also one of the few people Sansa trusted.

"My lady, I hope you know, you're one of the few people Sansa looks to for advice and guidance. From her insistence, I would make an accord with you." Jon said carefully.

The tired expression on Lady Olenna's face did not buckle. "An accord? What do you have up your sleeve, young man?"

Jon let the comment slide. "Since, as you say, things would have been different had Sansa married your grandson, you would have likely spent winter in the Reach."

"Sliding into a graceful decline with each snowfall," the matron replied. "It would have been fitting, I suppose. Not to be, I'm afraid. Why? What do you propose?"

Jon pressed on. "House Stark has need of House Tyrell's guidance. The words of your house are 'Growing Strong'. Winterfell has its own glass gardens which yielded great promise until they were all but destroyed during the war. Sansa does what she can, but I know she would appreciate more help."

"To grow a garden?" Lady Olenna smiled, her keen political mind was calculating. "A glass garden full of peas and radishes? Or do you need help cultivating a garden to protect a new pack of direwolf cubs?"

Oh, the lady could see right through him. She was just as intelligent as her reputation merited. No wonder his wife and Arya admired this woman so much. She was a formidable ally, and a deadly opponent to those who would wish them harm. Living proof the green tendrils of nature could kill a man as just as easily as a sword.

"My family is surrounded by enemies, with too few people to keep them safe." Jon continued. "Sansa said you and your granddaughter gave her comfort and protection in a time she needed it most. She wrote to me, and I agree, we want to offer you a place at Winterfell."

"Highly unusual," Lady Olenna's tone softened. She could see the colors and possibilities to such a situation. "I wouldn't have expected to live out the remainder of my life as an esteemed guest to the King in the North."

"My lady, most of our family is gone, and we would be honored if you would act as a surrogate grandparent to our child." Jon said. "Lord Stark is the only father I have ever known. I carry part of him wherever I go. I can tell you, children do not forget the people who love them and raise them, whether they're blood or not. All the new Stark children born at Winterfell will think the same. If you stay with us, our babe, and any other children we have, will remember no other grandmother but you."

It was an enticing offer. So much so, the Lady of the Reach stalled to answer. "I had hoped to have several children to dawdle on my knee."

Jon felt his cheeks burn a bit, and sported a half grin. "If my wife is willing and able, we'll try for a few more."

"By numerous attempts, no doubt," Lady Olenna replied with a knowing look. The King in the North had the good sense to look contrite and not respond. Whatever Ramsay Bolton had inflicted on his lady wife, this young man had been the avenging sword and the balm to soothe what anxieties Sansa had about the marriage bed. Jaehaerys Targaryen was willing to place his name to the side so that his wife's house could thrive. For a man who had already sacrificed so much, wasn't it a marvel how he bore it all so honorably? It was the strength of his Stark blood, no doubt.

Yes, Olenna could see it now. Being a grandmother again. Seeing the wide eyes and love of the little ones sitting upright in her lap and clutching the long folds of her dresses. A garden of handsome Stark children, both dark and red haired, planting kisses on her cheeks and growing up brave and strong among the tangle of godswood trees and blue winter roses of the north. Secure in the home their parents were rebuilding for them. Safely surrounded by a garden hedge cultivated by a lifetime of her political experience. Making them ready to rule the north, or the whole of Westeros if need be. Maybe there was enough time left to raise one more generation. The fate the gods had given her may not have been a mistake after all.

The matron considered the proposal at length, then nodded. "I'll send a raven to the Reach, requesting my trunks and my gardeners, your grace." Lady Olenna said at last. Her words were firm and decisive.

"Please, we don't dwell much on titles." The king said quickly. "We're not as formal in the north. My family uses my name, Jon."

"Well then, _Jon_." The Queen of Thorns used the name with renewed vigor and emphasis. "My men have never seen a glass garden, but I daresay they'll adapt. And I noticed Winterfell is in dire need of new furniture. I'll send for some. Better to have it in the north where it's needed rather than being sold off to fill the new Lord Protector's pockets."

"Sansa and I would be honored by whatever you bring, my lady." His tone was respectful, but aloof. This Jon Targaryen wasn't a man who cared for acquiring possessions.

"Not accustomed to such niceties like lounges and soft chairs?" Lady Olenna remarked with precision.

"I grew up with no need for them. Then I came here to the Wall. There's little comfort to be found up here." Jon replied bluntly. "But I know my wife would appreciate them."

"There are few things a new mother appreciates more than comfort and security. And between the two of us, the Lady of Winterfell will have both."

XxX

Sansa was in agony.

Sitting on the side of the bed, feet supported by a board made just for this occasion, Sansa leaned back against the midwife. Her breaths were short and raspy. The pain in her midsection was threatening to tear her apart. Janica, the midwife, was a friendly and cheerful woman from White Harbor, who had been requested to assist with the labor. Sansa breathed heavily through another labor pain. The midwife cooed words of encouragement in her ear. The maester and midwife had taken great measures to ensure she was positioned to give birth as painlessly as possible.

It wasn't comfortable enough.

Maester Wolkan was seated on a low stool, trying to act as inoffensive as possible. It was mortifying to have a man she didn't trust between her legs and delivering her firstborn child. Sansa had barely allowed him near her, confining herself to her rooms or to the care of the midwife for the final months of her pregnancy. It was all for naught. As Winterfell's maester, it was Wolkan's duty to bring her child safely into the world. The midwife was present to give aid and provide moral support should it be needed.

Sansa missed her mother and old Maester Luwin acutely as soon as her labor began. She dozed off between pains, the memory of their calm and soothing voices drifting through her mind. Catlyn Stark urging her to be strong, reassuring her the pain of childbirth was worth the effort. Maester Luwin telling her she was doing well, his gentle words encouraging her as he had so often when she was a child.

She'd give Luwin a plaque in the crypt for his kindness if she made it through the ordeal of childbirth.

Sansa blinked back tears. Both the old maester and her mother were gone, and her husband was at war. Her own sister had excused herself to spar in the tiltyard. Sansa was alone with a woman she barely knew and a man she absolutely didn't trust.

It was depressing company in which to birth a child.

Panting again, Sansa felt the pains rise up another notch. The midwife continued her stream of encouraging words. The maester said little, examining her body for signs of distress. He showed deference in the way he spoke to her when his hand searched her channel and connected with the child emerging from her body.

"The babe should be here soon, your grace." Maester Wolkan said. "Everything's moving just as it should."

"A few more pushes, and it'll be over. You're almost there," The midwife affirmed. "You're doing so well."

Sansa breathed deeply. Why wasn't there enough air in the room? The maester handed the midwife a cool wet cloth, and Janica bathed Sansa's forehead and neck. The waves of pain lasted several longer minutes, but were mitigated by the blessedly cool water running down her skin.

Maester Wolkan nodded to the midwife, who took on the role of the vocal helpmate. "Push again, m'lady. A little longer this time."

Sansa groaned. Gods it hurt. How long it went on, she could hardly tell. Minutes? Hours? What did it matter?

The soft crown of the baby's head appeared. The maester grinned suddenly, his tone more excited. "Another push, your grace."

A constant steady rope of pain burned below her waist. Sansa felt her muscles heave from the effort of bearing down. The lack of rest and pain clouded her mind. "What do you see?" Sansa said after taking a deep breath.

"Dark hair, your grace." The maester replied.

"Dark hair?" Sansa croaked. Of course, the heir to House Stark would favor its father. Sansa would have wept if she hadn't been focused on bringing her child into the world. Tears could be shed later. She had to hold on until the babe was in her arms to cry outright.

Sansa extracted her hand from the midwife's grasp, and reached down between her legs to feel the evidence of her child for herself. The maester, ever present, guided her hand to the place where the child's head was emerging from her body.

Sansa marveled at the wonder of it. The immensity of what was happening. Her first child was almost here.

The pain doubled suddenly, and Sansa nearly fell forward from the turmoil wracking her body. Maester Wolkan caught her before she toppled, and eased her back to the strong arms of the midwife. Sansa panted heavily again, her body contracting and loosening to allow the child safe passage. The maester's experienced hands guided the shoulders past the final barrier, and from there, the babe slid free from its mother.

A cry emerged, sudden and soft, followed by a fierce wail.

The maester wiped the face of the newborn gently with a wet cloth. Blood and fluid were expunged to reveal the face of a rosy-cheeked baby. He cut the cord with a knife and tied the end with silk thread.

"A boy, your grace." The joy and pride in the maester's voice was unmistakable. It was the first time Sansa could ever recall seeing the maester smile. "A healthy boy for the King and Queen in the North." He transferred the naked newborn into the arms of its mother, covered the two of them with a soft blanket, and positioned himself back down to deliver the afterbirth. The remnants of the pregnancy were produced quickly and easily. Such an easy birth was a good sign a mother would recover and bear many more children without issue.

Sansa clutched the baby to her chest, trying to take him all in with her eyes. A boy. A son. It seemed impossible, but here he was. The hours of pain and anguish had resulted in this little creature who was squalling for attention.

Her son. Jon's son.

Their son Robb.

Warming her son skin-against-skin with her own body and a blanket, Sansa held the babe for a while, sharing all sorts of affirmations with Janica. Yes, the baby was beautiful. Healthy and whole. Perfect. When the newborn had calmed down, the midwife pulled apart Sansa's robe and helped guide the baby to its mother's breast. The warmth and familiar heartbeat soothed him, and very little effort, he began nursing in earnest.

Sansa's heart nearly burst. Tears fell freely down her face. The whole experience was so miraculous. She studied the little boy's features as he suckled. His little forehead was still furrowed, not from crying, but from concentration and focus.

Gods, he looked so much like Jon.

"Do you have a name for him, your grace? Or are you waiting for a raven to be sent to the king?" Maester Wolkan asked.

Sansa was too engrossed by her son to look at the man. The words rolled off her tongue in a string of grace and conviction. "His name is Robb. Robb, of House Stark. Second of his name. Heir to the seat of Winterfell, and son of the King in the North."

"Prince Robb," Janica smiled sweetly. "It has a certain ring to it."

"Prince Robb," the maester affirmed. "A healthy boy. I'll have someone fetch Lady Arya, your grace."

"She'll come up when she's ready," Sansa replied without a hint of malice in her voice. "I want him all to myself for a little while longer."

XxX

The prince finished nursing, and lay contently in his mother's arms. The Lady of Winterfell looked exhausted, but radiant. The maester had completed his examination of the afterbirth, and finding it all in good order, and summoned two servants to assist the mother with a brief wash. Another pair arrived to strip the bedding and lay out fresh linens for the mother's lying in.

Janica coaxed the prince from his mother's arms. Sansa was reluctant to let him go, but the midwife assured her it was best for the baby to be properly cleaned. The maester was making a restorative tea with a kettle over the fire, deeply absorbed in his work.

Comforting the babe in her arms, Janica pushed her way through the adjoining door to the solar where a well-proportioned basin of warm water and a small pile of towels had been set up. Closing the door behind her, the midwife moved to the table and laid the baby down on a soft cloth. Finding the temperature to her liking, she scrubbed the babe down efficiently, checking around the navel to ensure the chord cut was clean and wiping the reminder of the birthing film from its eyes.

The babe was a wriggling little thing, and he cried as she washed him. But no matter, he was washed clean, swaddled, and placed back on the table.

She had one more thing left to do before handing the baby back to its mother.

Reaching under the table, the midwife reached for a small flask secured to the underside of the wood. It fell easily into her hand, and methodically, she removed the lid and sniffed the liquid.

Subtle earthy hints. Nothing obvious.

Moving aside the blanket, the midwife stroked the baby's head and chest. Then tipped the top of the flask gently to the baby's mouth. The prince coughed, and cried out, wanting nothing to do with the liquid he was being offered. The midwife made soothing noises, and after stroking the baby's head, she moved her attentions to his neck. Gentle fingers massaged his throat, and this time, he swallowed several gulps of the liquid. A few more moments and her task was finished.

The door facing the hallway creaked open, and Janica's apprentice, a skinny girl with dark hair and a freckled face, entered the room silently.

"Did it arrive?" The midwife asked in a hushed tone.

The apprentice nodded. "Yes," she affirmed. "It came by a rider from the north." Her hands slipped into the pockets of her dress, and revealed a sealed envelope.

"Let me open it," the midwife demanded, turning her back on the babe and gripping the letter in the apprentice's hands.

The apprentice said nothing, but instead moved closer to look at the newborn mewing softly from its blankets. Her mistress read the letter, unaware how the apprentice stealthily held the hidden flask in one hand, inhaled the scent, and replaced the lid.

"How much did you give him?" The apprentice asked dispassionately.

The midwife was focused on the letter. "A few mouthfuls. It will be enough," she replied absentmindedly.

The apprentice sniffed the top of the flask again. "The Long Farewell," she said with conviction. "Does the maester have anything to reverse it?"

"Yes," The midwife said shortly, tucking the letter into her pocket. "But even if he realizes what it is, he won't get to it in time. Here, let me take the prince back to his mother."

The apprentice picked up the babe carefully, and whistled softly through her teeth. The sound of four muffled paws slipped quietly into the room. The midwife turned to see Lady Arya's direwolf standing in the doorway. When she shifted her attention back to her apprentice, the familiar face of the girl she knew was gone. There in her place stood Arya Stark, holding the baby prince protectively in her arms and staring back at the midwife with a look of hatred in her eyes.

"Nymeria. Go." Arya said coolly, holding the baby with one arm and producing a dagger with the other.

The direwolf pounced, knocking the woman into a sprawled position on the floor. The midwife screamed as the wolf growled and snapped in the woman's face. The screaming alerted the men in the hallway, and prompted the maester to open the door to the adjoining room.

"What on earth?" Maester Wolkan admonished. "What's going on in here?" The maester was shocked to see the midwife screaming on the floor under the immense weight of the giant direwolf. "My lady, please." He exclaimed. "Call off your wolf."

"What is it? What's happening?" Sansa's anxious voice echoed from the other room.

"She gave the baby poison," Arya said quickly, nodding to the flask on the table. "The Long Farewell. All I have is this." She sheathed the dagger and reached into her pocket to hold a vial between two fingers. "Will it be enough?"

The maester paled at the news, and examined the size of the vial. "Possibly. But we may need more." He reached out for the babe who was squalling in his aunt's arms. "Let me take him, my lady. I'll make sure he drinks it."

Arya transferred the precious bundle to the maester, who upon lifting the vial to the prince's mouth, massaged his throat and coaxed him to drink all the liquid inside. The babe coughed when it was over, and cried piteously. Wolkan bundled up the prince tightly, and checked his eyes and nose for any signs of the poison taking effect.

" _Where is he!_ " Sansa yelled, tears and fear and heartache echoing in every word. "Is he alright? Someone bring him to me!"

The anguish in her sister's voice ripped Arya's heart in two.

The maester, hearing his lady's distress, cradled the little bundle gently and rushed him back into the arms of his mother. Arya nodded to the three men who'd arrived in the room. "Take her down to the cells and keep her under watch at all times. I want her alive. I need her to talk."

As the men approached, Arya whistled for Nymeria to abandon her quarry, and the guards hauled the midwife out of the room and to the underground cells. She continued to weep and moan as they dragged her down the corridor.

Arya could question her later. She had bigger concerns to address at present.

Moving swiftly into the adjoining room, Arya watched Sansa cuddle her son against her chest. A stray servant was watching from the side of the room, shocked to hear and see what had transpired. The rest of them had fled to get help.

"What happened?" Sansa sobbed. "Where's the midwife?" Her pale face and exhausted figure had been pushed to the brink by the trauma of childbirth and the disappearance of her son.

Arya took a place by her sister's side, Nymeria choosing to sit close to her. "She tried to poison the baby," the younger woman soothed. "She'd being led down to the cells as we speak."

"Poison?" Sansa wept. "What? How?"

Arya didn't want to tell her the why or when until another dose of the poison's remedy had been administered. "Maester Wolkan gave your son the antidote. He's going to fetch some more."

"It's locked up securely in the tower," The maester affirmed, excusing himself and moving in a streak of black fabric and clanking chains.

The sisters said very little until the maester returned with a larger glass vial. Holding it up to the light, he estimated a dosage.

"If you would angle him closer to me, your grace," the man said soothingly. "There you are. Tilt his head up and he should be able to take some more."

The baby sputtered on the first few drops, but with the maester's help, he swallowed several more mouthfuls of the clear liquid. Wolkan held the vial back up to the light and nodded to the Lady of Winterfell. "That's enough. He should be out of danger. We need to watch him for the rest of the night, just in case he needs more."

Sansa repositioned her son closer to her chest, and allowed her sister and the maester to cover her and the babe under a thick blanket of pelts.

The minutes ticked past, and the three of them said nothing. There was very little they could do but wait. A half an hour went by. The babe slept. An hour passed. Sansa dozed off holding the baby. She looked so tired and anguished, Arya didn't have the heart to wake her up or take the baby from her. The second hour passed. Then a third. The maester kept checking the baby's breath and pulse all night.

In the thin dark before dawn, the baby stirred again, and cried out to be fed. Sansa started awake, and with her sister's help, set aside her robe and brought the baby to nurse. The prince ate his fill, and drifted back to sleep, his little mouth still suckling as he slept.

No blood. No death.

The babe was fine.

Sansa pulled her gaze from the newborn in her arms to the two people and the direwolf who were still by her side. "Thank you," Sansa said softly to both Arya and Maester Wolkan. "Thank you so much."

Arya gave her a loving smile and a shrug. The maester grinned with an expression of warm compassion in his eyes. "I am at your service, your grace."

The happy relief in Sansa's eyes and the sleeping baby in her arms was a better reward than anything they all could have wished for.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

Chapter 20

 _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_

The feel of hammer on steel was as familiar as his own heartbeat. Gendry ignored the sounds of the men at work around him, and focused on reshaping the steel sword back into its proper shape. It was the work a novice apprentice could accomplish in about a day. Gendry wanted the sword repaired in a few hours. It kept his mind off the constant cold and dark surrounding the fires of his forge.

Winter winds shook the camp. The sharp gusts flayed exposed skin like a knife, and all along the wall, soldiers daydreamed of summer. While their shifts patrolling the wall were short, the conditions at the top were made miserable by the sudden dips in temperature, or watching the dead reanimate into blue eyed wraiths if not dealt with quickly.

Gendry spent his time away from patrolling the Wall at work with his tools, making himself useful and tackling some of the trickier tasks a few of his apprentices couldn't manage. It also gave him an excuse to ignore the more political aspects of his position.

The war against the dead needed his hammer more than his words, he reasoned.

Gendry felt he needed a safe place to escape which felt familiar. The forge, the tools, the smell of cooling iron, and the sound of the billows were comforting now that winter continued to pound on their camp. The man could ignore the cold and dark if he had a fire and work to finish.

 _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_

More importantly, working kept his mind off his wife. It was another reason why he preferred his forge to the company of others. He could hammer away to exhaustion and keep the longing for her in check. If Gendry let his mind wander too long, he could see Arya Stark. Her eyes. Her sweet face. Her feisty personality. The way she looked at him when no one was watching. The feel of her skin under his hands. What he would do with her when he had her back in his arms…

 _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_

He and the apprentices had enclosed the space to keep the heat inside, and work in relative comfort. The forge was the one place he was completely warm all the time. The younger apprentices had moved their camp beds into the building to sleep at night, and during the day shifts, men from all around the camp would stop in to warm themselves and swap information. Most of the news was pure rubbish, but it didn't stop the others from listening.

 _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_

"Saul said he saw a group of riders coming in from the south," said a man fighting for House Glover.

"More men for the Wall, I hope," grumbled a soldier from House Hightower.

"Naw, said he only saw four. No banners, not that anyone would want 'em. Too bloody cold to carry 'em. I'd like to see if it's those men from the Brotherhood without Banners. Heard they're a fierce bunch. Could use their like around here."

Gendry adjusted the hammer in his hand. He could do without another encounter with the Brotherhood, seeing as they offered him a place and then sold him down the river as a blood sacrifice. He didn't take it personally anymore, but damn if it didn't make him want to bash a few of their faces in.

 _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_

The door opened again, and another man joined the group keeping to the side of the building. He shook the cold from his body like a dog, and held his hands in front of his mouth to warm them with his breath.

"Got some riders from Winterfell. Three guards and a lady. That's what they said when Jory opened the gate. But she don't look like no lady I've ever seen."

Gendry stilled his hammer. He looked up from the metal he was shaping to call out the man who'd arrived with the news.

"Who is she?" Gendry asked the man directly. "The lady who just passed through the gates?"

"Didn't catch her name," the man replied, surprised the master armorer had joined the conversation. "Thought she was a boy at first. No dress, just leather armor and a skinny sword."

Arya.

The air escaped Gendry's lungs. If she'd ridden up from Wintefell, the situation there must be desperate. "Nico," he said, summoning one of his apprentices over to the anvil. "Take over for me."

The young man didn't baulk at the request, but turned to reheat the steel while Gendry dressed in the clothes he had hanging on the wall nearby. By the time he'd donned his shirt doublet, and cloak, the other men warming themselves had taken an interest in his actions.

"You know the lady, m'lord?"

"Yeah," Gendry said as he pulled on his gloves and threw the cloak hood over his head. "She's my wife."

The cold outside was sharp contrast to the warmth of the forge, but he didn't feel it. Quickening his pace, Gendry navigated the neat rows of tents and temporary structures of the encampment, making his way hurriedly to the king's tent, which was where he'd hoped his wife was headed.

She wasn't. He turned the corner to his own tent and there she was, looking both ways and ducking inside. He could hear her calling his name over the wind.

"Arya!" He yelled. His blood heated and his body tightened when he saw her stoop through the opening and back outside. "Arya!" She was looking for him, eyes searching the falling snow and people passing by.

"Gendry?"

A flood of emotions escaped from Gendry's carefully constructed internal control. He didn't think she saw him. He must have looked like everyone else rushing about with their heads covered. But his eyes found hers through a gust of frost and snow. It seemed her control was melting right alongside his. He met her in a tangle of limbs and kisses. It wasn't the careful and respectful reunion of a noble couple. Theirs was a long burn of heat and longing. He wanted to hoist her up in his arms, lift her legs to wrap around his waist. Bury himself inside her sweet warmth.

But he couldn't. Not yet. He held himself back, forcing himself to relinquish her lips. A thousand words and questions raced through his mind. The only one which could sum up all of them emerged from his throat. "What's wrong?"

He noticed how the skin of her face was icy cold, but flushed with the heat generating between them. She didn't shrug, or blush. She looked tired, but determined. He could tell her walls were up.

"Not here." She said quickly with a shake of her head. "Where's Jon?"

A sense of dread shot to his chest. Something had happened to his goodsister or her child.

Gendry's mouth set in a grim line. "He's with the queen," he told his wife quietly. "I'll take you to him."

He held her hand, leading her though the twists and turns of shelters to the familiar tent of the dragon queen. The two unsullied guards stood at attention outside. Gendry would have thought they'd frozen to death in place if they both hadn't moved at the same time.

"Lord Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark to see the King in the North. There's urgent news from Winterfell."

The unsullied relaxed their stance slightly. One turned, and announced their presence inside the tent. Muffled voices rose over another swell of winter wind. The guard stood to the side, allowing them entry. Once they pushed through the tent flap, the pretext of court courtesy was all but abandoned.

King Jon was there, springing up from his chair and crossed the expanse to bring the woman he always regarded as a sister into a firm embrace. "What are you doing here?" He said, his voice aching with concern. Gendry broke from the reunion to see Lord Tyrion, Ser Davos, Lord Varys, Missandei, and Queen Daenerys looking at the three of them questioningly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Gendry remembered his manners. "Y'grace, m'lords. M'lady." He didn't bow, but instead nodded his head to them.

"Lord Gendry." Queen Daenerys said kindly. Her somber amethyst eyes looked on in interest.

Jon and Arya parted from their hold, still absorbed in each other. "What's happened?" The king asked, an achy desperation pitched in his voice. "Is it Sansa?"

Gendry could read his wife, just as the king could. His friend was burning to know what was wrong, but he wouldn't force Arya to speak her piece until it was safe to do so. This was a bad sign.

Arya shook her head. "Can we talk somewhere?"

Jon moved away from his sister with a reluctant nod. He turned to the others in the tent. "Your grace, I have news from home."

"Very urgent if the younger lady of Winterfell is bringing it in person." Lord Tyrion noted. "I hope you're well, my lady."

"Well enough, my lord." Arya said, her eyes flickered to each face, sizing up the personalities surrounding her.

"Is this the formidable Arya Stark, my lord?" the queen asked politely. The tone in Daenerys's voice was a subtle request for an introduction.

Gendry's gaze sought Arya's for forgiveness and permission. He offered her his hand and she grudgingly followed him closer to the silver-haired sovereign. This wasn't how he envisioned his queen and his wife meeting for the first time. It was a clash of ice and fire which had the potential to be explosive.

"Yes, y'grace. My wife, Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell." Gendry said clearly.

Arya and the queen studied each other closely. Neither giving hint of what each other was thinking. "Your grace," Arya replied with cool politeness. No nod. No curtesy. No bow. It was just polite enough to reflect criticism and display her allegiance to the King in the North. "My apologies for the interruption. There is an urgent matter I must discuss with my cousin, the king." It was a well-crafted, diplomatic statement. Unnatural for the time he'd spent in her company, yet it flowed naturally from her lips.

"My nephew has kept me appraised of the comings and goings of all his news from Winterfell," The queen's tone was not too placating. "Is your sister well? Lady Olenna said she was close to delivering her first child."

"The queen is my family, just as much as you, Bran, or Sansa," Jon interjected. "If something has happened, my aunt would be the first to know."

Arya looked at the assembly angrily. "I don't know them. I don't trust them."

"Then trust me. Trust Gendry. What's happened?" The pleading note in Jon's voice seemed to break Arya's demeanor. She turned away from the queen, not out of rudeness but from a necessity to be as accurate in her delivery as possible. Gendry hovered close to her, one of his hands finding the space around her waist to curve into.

"Sansa had the baby two weeks ago." Arya said somberly. "A little boy. She named him Robb."

"A son?" Jon's eyes sparkled for a moment, but when he saw how his sister's eyes remained stony cold, Gendry could see his heart drop. There was no relief reflected in the king's eyes. He could feel there was more events involved. "Is Sansa alright? What happened?"

"There was a midwife from White Harbor. Less than an hour after the babe was born, the midwife poisoned him with 'The Long Farewell'." Arya explained.

There were no words spoken from the people standing together. To spend hours in childbirth, only to have a child poisoned by the person charged with seeing it safely into the world seemed to be a cruel miscarriage of justice.

"What?" Jon's voice rasped with grief and anger.

"The maester had the antidote," Arya continued. "Wolkan managed to coax enough into the baby to help him recover. He's fine. He's never felt the effects of the poison at all. He gets fussy, but then he eats like a piglet and dozes off."

Jon half barked a laugh of sadness and relief. "And Sansa?"

"She won't sleep, and she barely eats. I left Nymeria with her because she doesn't trust anyone else around her or the baby. Sansa won't let Robb out of her arms. Her health will break soon if we don't do something."

"And the midwife?" Jon asked.

"I've brought her to face the king's justice." Arya replied. "But I need to bring her to your council first."

"Why?" Jon questioned.

"She claims Lord Baelish offered her payment and a place in the Vale if she poisoned your son." Arya said simply. "And if that wasn't enough, Littlefinger sent the midwife a letter of payment and an introduction to the steward of the Eyrie. I was hoping you could arrange an execution for both the midwife and Lord Baelish as soon as possible."

XxX

In his vision, Bran was walking. It was a sensation he always enjoyed, feeling free to stretch his legs, scale a hill, or climb a flight of stairs. In the many events he'd witnessed, his legs never prevented him from moving effortlessly, or going anywhere he wanted to visit. The Three Eyed Raven had been right – it was too easy to slip into an unending stream of visions and never confront the present-day conditions around you.

This time, he was home, ambling around the corridors of Winterfell. The few people he saw were bustling around focused on their daily tasks. By chance, he heard the soft cries of a baby echoing from the family wing of the castle. His feet led him up the stairs, and down the corridor to his parent's room. By habit, he wanted to knock. But in visions, that impulse felt contrary.

The crying seemed to soften a little, and then stopped completely. Soft singing reached his ears. It was a melody that pulled him back to a time when was very little, when his mother or Old Nan would sing to him. Bran walked into the room, half expecting to see Catlyn Stark in her usual chair before the fire. What he saw instead was his sister Sansa, propped upright in bed holding a small bundle in her arms. Her skin was paler than usual, and the brilliant red of her hair accentuated the dark circles under her eyes. His sister's sweet singing voice, which Bran couldn't recall hearing for many years, was even and lulling.

" _Sleep my baby on my bosom  
Warm and cozy will it prove  
Round you mother's arms are folding  
In her heart a mother's love_

 _There shall no one come to harm you  
Naught shall ever break your rest  
Sleep my darling babe in quiet  
Sleep on mother's gentle breast"_

Sansa was a mother. She must have finally had her baby. Bran couldn't see much more than a little face peeking from the blankets, but he was drawn to his sister's bedside for a closer look. The newborn had settled back into sleep, its little mouth moving reflexively between breaths. Bran always imagined babies would sleep without moving, but this one seemed to be rather active.

As Sansa continued to sing, Bran noticed how tired his sister's features had become. She must not be sleeping enough. There was a wicker baby basket and a wooden rocking cradle nearby, but neither looked as if they were being used. There were no attendants, just Arya's direwolf Nymeria laying watchfully by the fire. That didn't seem right. Hadn't they always had someone like Old Nan to tend to them when they were little? The memories were hazy. Bran couldn't remember.

Before he could ponder much more, a sound from the outside world intruded on his vision. Meera Reed's voice was echoing through the space around him. "Bran! Wake up! Your sister is here!"

"Sansa?" Bran said aloud. How could that be? She was in Winterfell. Why would she be at the Wall?

Recovering his wits, Bran emerged from his vision. The tent was dark, a small fire from the brazier shone dimly in the space around him.

"Bran! Your sister is here!" Meera repeated. "Come'on! She's asked for you!"

"Sansa?" Bran asked.

"No. The other one. Dark hair. Carries a sword." Meera was helping him sit up. "One of the free folk are coming to take you to the queen's tent."

"What's Arya doing here?"

"Dunno," his friend replied. "Her face was awfully dead set. Maybe something's happened in Winterfell."

Bran felt his stomach drop. He'd just seen Sansa in his vision, but he didn't know from when. Had she died? Had something happened to the baby?

Turmond Giantsbane arrived to transport him to the dragon queen's tent. Bran hated the spectacle of being carried through camp, but there was no way around it. But he was resigned to it, as his options were to either crawl on the ground or allow someone to carry him.

"Ready to go, little raven?" Turmond asked. His smile was easy and nature affable. Bran didn't bother to nod approval or provide a response. Turmond did what Turmond wanted to do. He waited on no one for permission. Bran had learned to just accept the ways of the free folk. It made it easier if he didn't have any expectations.

"Turmond, do you know why my sister's here?" Bran asked.

The red-bearded man waited a moment before answering. "It must be a matter of life and death. What person would ride to the wall with only three guards at their side?"

Three guards? Why three of them?

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	21. Chapter 21

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks to everyone for the great reviews! I really look forward to reading them and hearing your feedback!**

Chapter 21

Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons had never presided over such a motley collection of advisors, councilors, or allies. Where once there had only been Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, now many more people had joined her circle. A few of them, such as Missandei and Grey Worm, had been with her since the first sack of Astapor. Others, such as Lady Olenna, had arrived recently by whim or circumstance.

There were allies, there were friends, and then there was the one person she knew to be family.

Jon Snow, born Jaehaerys Targaryen. Her nephew. The man Northerners called the White Wolf. The King in the North.

With the delivery of news from Winterfell, Daenerys now had a great-nephew, born barely two weeks ago. A little boy his parents had named Robb. Given in honor for the eldest son of Eddard and Catlyn Stark, the man her nephew admired as his brother and one of his greatest friends. The elder Robb had died years ago, along with his mother, wife, and unborn child at the Red Wedding. And something just as odious had been planned for the younger Robb Stark, fated to be poisoned less than an hour after his birth.

Misplaced trust had cost Daenerys the life of her own son, and she'd be a fool to let another breach threaten the lives of the last two members of her house. Jaehaerys Targaryen was her staunch ally and trusted battlefield commander, and his son Robb Stark was an innocent babe, and had yet to see a month of life.

Brandon Stark, the young Three Eyed Raven, had been invited to her tent. Bran had experienced another vision of Sansa and the babe alive after the birth. Sansa was still quite weak, Bran explained. She didn't trust anyone to guard her son better than herself and Arya's direwolf, Nymeria. But the babe was thriving.

The dragon bloodline was still alive, and she'd be damned if she wouldn't protect it with every conceivable political trick and physical punishment known in Westeros.

Still, there should be justice. Which was why Lord Baelish wasn't led to the council meeting as a prisoner. He had been simply summoned just as everyone else had been, to give the illusion that the concerns of the war were at the forefront.

Daenerys didn't spare Lord Baelish much of a glance when he entered the tent. But she noticed how his custom of surveying the room was in place, keeping up the appearance of being non-threating and amiable to those gathered around her chair. His eyes spent a moment longer on Arya Stark, who stood with her husband. For her part, the younger Stark sister schooled her expression to that of a mourner at a funeral.

All the better to deliver news in the way it had been originally intended.

Daenerys' nephew was seated beside her, his handsome face set in stone cleaved from years of upheaval and loss. Before she called council, they had spoken at length about how to approach this delicate political power struggle. Jon had raged, rasped his opinions, but ultimately conceded to her experience. His wife was alone, health failing and barely protected by the few people left in the keep. And he had nearly lost his firstborn son by treachery within the confines of his ancestral home. It had been bitter news to swallow, and now the attempt on the babe's life had prevented his wife from recovering fully from childbirth.

Lyanna Stark had died in childbed. Sansa Stark may soon follow from exhaustion if the situation wasn't remedied directly. Having lost her own spouse, Daenerys was keen to see her niece-by-marriage recover and thrive as a new mother. The gods knew the addition of more children to their family would be a blessing beyond compare.

Jon had wanted Baelish's head. He wanted to be the one to pass the sentence and swing the sword, just as his uncle, grandfather, and Stark lords had done since before Aegon's conquest. Daenerys for her part, felt obliged to grant him that kind of justice. But Lord Baelish had sworn himself to her cause, and had been richly rewarded for it. Now he'd become ensnared in a trap of his own making. The Northern and Southern Kingdoms would need to act in a united front to hold a trial and pass sentence without riling up the Vale.

Lord Varys had been feeling out the Lords of the Eyrie for some weeks now. Littlefinger had overplayed his hand this time, and the murder of an innocent child to further his own ambitions was the final excuse to end his scheming once and for all.

The realm, no doubt, would be all the better for it.

"I call for your council, my lords, my ladies." Daenerys began. Her voice lifted over the murmuring din of the crowd, settling it into a state of respectful silence. "We have much to decide today. The dead are rising among our ranks due to hostile conditions and lack of medical care. We must find a way to improve camp for a longer stalemate with the Night's King."

"This may be the plan of our enemy to see his dead rise within our army and wear our defenses down from the inside," Jon added. "He sends the winter to freeze us dead and to wear our army down from exhaustion. The more men who die from winter weather, the harder it will be for us to fight."

"Let us send for more maesters, your grace," said Ser Davos. "There is a large enclave at the citadel in Old Town. Young maesters who are skilled in the healing arts may wish to pursue their studies where it can make a difference."

"We have a library and old Maester Aemon's quarters here at the castle," said Edd Tollett, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. "The new maesters can bunk together and still have space for books and the stuff they need. It won't be as good as what they have at the citadel, but it's the best we've got."

"There may also be maesters who can engineer new lifts and logistic plans for us," Lord Tyrion added. "Getting men from the top of the wall down to a maester on the ground is proving to be difficult, and as we can't just chuck a man down from the wall and hope he survives the trip, well, we'll need a better way to transport the wounded and the dead to facilities here."

Discussion continued for another hour, with requests to be made to the citadel and to other locations around Westeros for building equipment need for the plans.

The hour gave Daenerys the opportunity to see if Lord Baelish would sweat a little. But he sat calmly, coolly, invested in the conversation, not sparing Arya Stark so much as a sly glance. Oh, he was a cold one alright.

"Before we discuss further matters, Lady Arya Stark arrived today with news from Winterfell. You may approach and speak, lady."

Lady Arya emerged from the shadow of her husband to stand in the middle of the council. She looked so very young and vulnerable in that moment. This was the other one to watch for, Daenerys thought. Lady Stark seemed to be a model actress, someone who could switch emotions in an instant if she wanted to. She brought a sense of unease to the circle, and the queen saw more than a few men react to the subtle undertone of mourning she brought forth with her words.

"I have grave new from Winterfell," Arya Stark began. Her voice didn't falter, but her tone was a combination of resignation and somber acceptance. "Just two weeks ago, my sister, Sansa Stark, wife to the King in the North, gave birth to a son. The maester said she delivered swiftly and easily, and her laying-in was better than expected."

A ripple of soft compliments filled the room. "Well, this is good news." Lady Olenna interjected. "A male heir to the north and a healthy mother. But from your face my dear, I'm thinking not all is well within the walls of Winterfell."

Arya shook her head no. "No, my lady, it is not. While my sister seemed to be recovering well, something much worse happened to the babe less than an hour after its birth."

All the people in the tent seemed to be holding their breath. Daenerys could see a tiny glint in Lord Baelish's dark eyes. His face was passive, but his usually cold eyes flared just briefly with one look: victory. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, which as all eyes in the tent were glued to Arya Stark, Littlefinger must have allowed himself one small moment of triumph.

"The midwife took the babe away to be cleaned," Arya continued, "But when he was ready to be returned to his mother…" She shuttered briefly, closing her eyes as if she was reliving the moment. Her words had the desired effect. Lord Baelish didn't say much, but focused his apt attention on what was to be said next.

"What happened, my lady?" Lord Tyrion asked softly.

Arya opened her eyes, and with a voice of deadly calm she said, "The midwife poured poison down his throat."

Some gasped, some shook their heads.

"How do you know this, my lady?" Lord Tyrion asked.

Arya pulled a flask from her pocket. "She was found with this. It's called 'The Long Goodbye'. Smell it, and anyone well acquainted with poison will tell you it is so. It was intended to be a slow and gentle death, where the babe would have just gone to sleep, never to awake again. The midwife was questioned at Winterfell, and she confessed to the crime."

"And the fate of my great-nephew?" Daenerys asked, her voice laced with concern.

"The maester had a remedy already made. The babe took it without issue, and has made a full recovery."

A sigh of relief swept the circle.

"I have brought the midwife to the King in the North to face justice." Arya continued. "However, she did not act alone."

"Who was helping her with this plot?" Daenerys asked.

"Her apprentice, who has since died. But she also gave another name. The name of a man who keeps close to your circle."

Lord Tyrion raised his hands to calm the whispers and voices rising around him. "Quiet! Please! My lady, who did she name?"

Arya hesitated, allowing for time to build suspense. Her quarry didn't so much as bat an eyelash.

"Lord Petyr Baelish."

And all hell broke loose.

XxX

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	22. Chapter 22

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

Chapter 22

There were shouts, threats, and expressions of disbelief. Lord Baelish sat calmly through it all with a look of well-schooled shock on his face. "Your grace, I am loyal to you. What reason would I have to harm the Lady of Winterfell in such a way?"

Jon's face looked murderous. Ser Davos had the presence of mind to clasp a hand on King Jon's shoulder, as if to hold him back from making a regrettable action. It was a treasonable gesture, but a well-meaning one. For his part, Jon's demeanor settled and became as cold as the element which had once been his name.

"Outrageous!" Yelled one of the lords of the Vale.

"What evidence do you have of these accusations?" Accused another Vale general.

A far louder crush of voices overpowered the lords of the Eyrie. If a lady of Winterfell had brought her case the queen, there must be some merit to the accusation.

Queen Daenerys raised one delicate hand for silence. She didn't need to raise her voice over the din of the assembly. The words quieted, but the bitter and disbelieving looks fired like arrows at Lord Baelish. Any other man would have been looking for an exit out of the tent.

For her part, Arya kept her expression controlled and calm. Faced with other overwhelming forces at work, there was only one way to see Baelish's head roll, and that was by presenting a non-refutable case.

"Your evidence, my lady?" Queen Daenerys asked, her face grave and her voice serious.

Arya turned, and nodded to the three Winterfell men guards at the back of the room. To most onlookers, it would have been a strange sight to see three guards wearing identical livery and helmets. Of the three guards, the middle stood just a bit shorter.

The ruse became apparent when the two tallest guards escorted the shortest of their group to stand next to Arya. They removed the helmet to reveal the pale features of a woman. The best way to hide something precious was to disguise it as something very commonplace and easily forgettable.

"The midwife," Arya said pointedly.

The woman fell to her knees on the ground. The guard's livery sagging to a bulky heap at her sides as she knelt. "Yer grace. My king." She was calm, but her eyes were already pleading for her life, switching from Daenerys to Jon with each nervous breath.

"Your name," the queen asked firmly.

The midwife found her voice, but it stuttered a bit from her nervous disposition. "Janica. Midwife of White Harbor."

"Janica the midwife," Daenerys said firmly. "You were found poisoning the newborn son of my nephew, a child who is heir to Winterfell. Under what circumstances were you tasked to do so?"

The midwife hung her head and rocked back and forth on her knees for a few seconds, working up the courage to speak. The room waited for words to emerge from the accused woman's throat.

"Winter has come, and everyone knows the army of the dead are rising. I've heard the stories. Everyone in White Harbor knows them. We had a man from the Night's Watch pass through our town, and even sober he said the dead in the north were coming to kill us all. I was trained by a midwife in the Vale when I was first apprenticed. I have sought a position there for several years, but none will have me there.

"Some months ago, a man was referred to me by the harbormaster. He was in need of a midwife, he said, for a high noble house in the Vale. I told him I would be pleased to accept the role. But there was a favor he asked as well. The Lady of Winterfell was expecting a child to be born soon. It was imperative she received the best care, as she was a precious and noble woman. He heard I have never lost a mother or infant in childbed. The lady was carrying a bastard born of rape, and that she had endured so much in her life already. Raising a baseborn child would be unbearable to her honor, he said, and the man who forced himself upon her would harm her further.

Midwives are trained to give remedies to aid lives as well as end them. Parents have asked me to give a gentle end to infants, as sometimes a babe is born so sickly or deformed it will die a slow and painful death. I use 'The Longfarewell' to give parents the chance to rock their children to sleep before giving their souls over to the Old Gods. It's a mercy, yer grace. I've only ever used it in mercy. He said it would be humane for the child to meet with a gentle end. If I could do this, and assure him of the noble lady's health after the birth, I would receive a mighty gift."

"What was this gift?" the queen asked

"One hundred gold dragons and the place as an honored midwife for House Arryn," the midwife said, tears flowing down her cheeks and a sob breaking from her throat. Her blotchy face swept to the King in the North. "My king, my widowed sister lives outside Ramsgate, and she has five young children. Winter has come and they had nothing to harvest. I need coin to take them away to safety in the south. I don't earn much for what I do, and it's hard. So hard. Do I leave them on their farm to starve or let the dead take them?"

The king's face showed no emotion or mercy. He continued to watch, his eyes a flinty fire ablaze with fury.

"Who is this man?" The queen interrupted, drawing the midwife's attention from her nephew. "The one who sent you to Winterfell."

"Him, your grace." The midwife pointed to Lord Baelish. "He was the one who asked me to do it."

Voices sprang up in anger and discontent. Young voices, old ones, or naysayers alike filled the tent with loud words. The queen silence them all with another lifting of her hand.

"What say you, Lord Baelish?" She asked with regal authority.

Littlefinger sat calmly, settling his eyes disapprovingly on the midwife. "I cannot say I am acquainted with this woman, your grace. It is possible she believes what she is saying, but who knows what kind of confession was beat into her head while she was questioned in Winterfell?"

Arya saw Jon's hands grip the arms of his chair. The wood squeaked and buckled under the pressure.

"There's more," Arya continued, pulling a piece of parchment from the leather armor of her chest. "A letter from Lord Baelish to the midwife." She walked forward to pass the parchment to Lord Tyrion.

The Queen's Hand read the note quickly, and relayed the words to the awaiting crowd. "This is a letter of introduction for Janica the midwife to the household steward of House Arryn. It's written in Lord Baelish's hand."

"How would you know?" Spat Lord Waynwood.

"I served with Lord Baelish on King Joffrey's Small Council," Tyrion replied. "I recognize his script from a multitude of others which once flooded my desk in King's Landing."

"Handwriting can be forged, my lord." Lord Baelish disagreed. "It is true, I wrote to White Harbor asking for more healers to join us here at the Wall. But no midwives. I had no reply from them and the rider never returned. If I'd known my letter could have been used in a plot to harm the Lady of Winterfell, I would have sent a guard to protect the messenger."

"Lord Baelish and the Knights of the Vale saved the king and his army at the Battle of the Bastards. He has been a friend to the Tully and Stark families for many years. What motive would he have to poison a helpless babe?" The erupted like daggers from Lord Waynwood's lips.

Missandai slipped like a shadow to the queen's side, and whispered quietly in her ear. The queen nodded, and her handmaiden glided inconspicuously away.

"Brandon Stark wishes to speak," Daenerys announced. "Tormund Giantsbane, Lord Stark is resting behind the curtain. Would you please bring him to sit next to me?

A chair was arranged, and Tormund moved unhurriedly to the rear of the tent where a curtain had been erected like a privacy screen, and emerged less than a minute later with the youngest Stark sibling. The few who knew of Bran's greensight said nothing, while the others who had not yet witnessed his powers looked uneasy. What would the queen want with a crippled boy? He hadn't been anywhere near Winterfell in years.

"Lord Stark, you wish to speak?" The queen asked. Bran's face, which had grown graver with each vision he experienced, looked older and more wizened than Arya had ever seen it before. It was that soulful look in his eyes she knew spoke volumes.

"Lord Baelish's messenger killed the midwife's apprentice when he rode to Winterfell. He was charged with killing the midwife as well, under the guise of escorting her and her family to a ship in White Harbor. But it was a ruse. The messenger would have killed the midwife if my sister hadn't discovered him stabbing the apprentice in the stables of Winterfell."

It was a damning statement, which inspired confused entreaties and disbelieving voices to emerge from the audience once more.

Through it all Arya stared at Lord Baelish. His eyes had narrowed into slits after Bran's testimony. His clever mind looked to be calculating his next step. Arya hoped it would be a rash decision ending in a swift stroke and blood. His eyes then settled on Arya. She smiled prettily back. Part of her very much wanted to see Littlefinger's blood painting the floor of the tent. But he shot her a cruel smile, the one which made his teeth flash with a demon-like grin.

"Your grace!" Lord Baelish yelled above the din. "Your grace. If I am to be condemned by false confession, forgery, and the visions of a crippled young man, than I have no choice to place my fate in the Gods. I request a trial by combat."

Jon stood from his chair, the wood rolling on the rugs and furs on the ground. The queen rose gracefully from her own seat. It was a strange sight to behold, the dragon queen looking composed yet cold like an icy statue, while her nephew stood beside her with a fiery façade and flames of vengeance in his eyes.

"A trial by combat?" The queen asked. "We accept your request. Will you wield a sword, or do you have someone willing to fight on your behalf?"

"I have but one champion in mind, your grace," Lord Baelish said smoothly. "My champion will be fire."

There was a stunned silence at those words. Arya felt her mouth drop open. There was not a person gathered in the tent who didn't know or hadn't been alive with King Aerys Targaryen had chosen the same champion to defeat Lord Rickard Stark while his son Brandon strangled himself trying to save his father.

It was a brilliant move, which would force the queen to dismiss the claims against Lord Baelish, or sacrifice someone to the fire for a complete pardon. It was something Arya hadn't even anticipated the Vale Lord was capable of. Now she knew. No wonder he had looked so unperturbed during the testimony. He already had a way to escape the charges completely.

As the wronged party, Jon would be forced to accept the challenge or pass it to another. Arya knew her brother, Jon was too noble. He would never ask another man to die in his place. If he accepted what Lord Baelish had thrown down Jon would surely die.

Lord Baelish seemed to win again.

In her shock, Arya watched the queen's hand settle on Jon's arm. Her face was calm and serene, and in her clear bell-like voice she said "House Targaryen accepts your challenge, my lord. Have the midwife imprisoned by the Night's Watch until further notice. Ask the men to build a pyre in a clear spot outside camp. We'll hold the trial there in the tomorrow at dusk. Bring all the bodies we need to burn. We must not waste what wood fuel we have acquired. Lord Baelish, I am assigning two guards to accompany you, and I must insist you stay in your tent until the trial."

Lord Baelish smiled broadly. "I heed and obey your commands, my queen."

Arya felt her heart break into a thousand pieces. This was Jon's aunt? The woman to whom her husband had pledged his life? She would be the ruin of her family, just as the Mad King had been. The council broke up without adjournment, and Arya felt a rush of anger flood her body.

Gendry appeared by her side out of nowhere, hauling her into his side and out of the tent. "He's going to die!" she whispered fiercely through gritted teeth when the two of them were out of earshot. "Why didn't she just pass sentence on him? She was well within her right to do so."

"The queen doesn't want to take a piss on the Lord of the Vale, or his bannermen," Gendry whispered just as fiercely. "You heard them. A trial by combat would leave the decision in the hands of the Gods. As if those wankers are ever watching."

"We can't just leave Jon and Bran," Arya bit out.

"You're angry, and you have a right to be. Jon'll find us when he's calmed down himself. We're not going far."

"Where are we going?" Arya asked.

"My tent." Gendry explained. "You're staying with me."

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	23. Chapter 23

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

Chapter 23

Petyr Baelish was waiting in his tent.

Waiting for his servants to serve the evening meal. Waiting for his correspondence to arrive. Waiting for the wine to be poured.

Waiting for the King of the North to die nobly tomorrow.

If the king hadn't married Sansa Stark, all of this could have been avoided. Petyr would have generally not harbored ill will against the young man, but the king had managed to derail some well-laid plans. Fortunately, Jaehaerys Targaryen was proving to be as pig-headedly noble as his Uncle Eddard, and it was so easy to dispose of overtly honorable men. They'd fall on their sword to prove themselves, and they would always be remembered as a good and noble men who had died so young. A sad tale told in homes, taverns, and stone keeps throughout the land.

Death made so many problems disappear.

Petyr had been counting on the former bastard to make a decision which would disqualify himself from the throne. Thankfully, the plausible deniability he'd worked into his plot with the midwife would work in his favor. If Jaehaerys carried the blood of the dragon, he'd survive the pyre tomorrow. But the odds were in Petyr's favor. The king was half Stark, and their blood had no resistance to the burning scorch of flame. It would be a noble ending to the King in the North. It was a just and good death to the man who'd stolen his intended. The Lady of Winterfell and her little she-bitch of a sister may view the situation differently, but it was public relations problem Petyr was determined to rectify.

Widowed for a second time, Sansa would be a difficult prize to reclaim. She was still young, and emboldened by her independence. He'd let her have it for a time. After all, he owed her for what the Boltons had put her through. Petyr had treated with Roose Bolton to instill a regimen of protection and consideration for Sansa into the daily running of the household. Petyr had expected Ramsey to be respectful and grateful for the wife he'd found for him. Sansa Stark was bonafide Northern royalty. But Roose had directed his attention other concerns, and their well-negotiated agreement wasn't honored by Ramsey. Roose should have used his impending legitimate child's arrival to flay some sense into his bastard son.

Sadly, it hadn't worked out as well as Petyr had anticipated.

Sansa should have emerged from the Bolton marriage smarter and surer of herself. Maybe a little shaken and bruised, but certainly more capable. Now he had a much harder task ahead; rebuild an emotional gap with a woman who held him in contempt.

Fortunately, with another husband dead, Sansa would have few options available. Petyr's negotiations and clever maneuverings had brought the power of the Vale, the Reach, and the Riverlands under his hand. Even if she had cared for her dead husband, Sansa should be able to see the political advantages of their union.

Still, Sansa didn't trust him, she had made that plainly enough.

He wouldn't try to pursue her. No, it would be too obvious. He wanted her to come willingly to him. Seek him out. Ask for his aid and advice. He hoped she would accept him sooner rather than later. This war with the undead could last several more years.

He'd wait.

He'd ensure Winterfell would fend off starvation during the winter. He'd be respectful, and generous in their dealings. He'd woo her from afar. Shower her with gifts and niceties. Send chatty letters about the war and ask for her advice. Use his growing powerbase to rebuild her home, including the eyesore of the broken tower. Show her he wasn't a threat to her son.

He'd wear her down gradually. One day, she'd wake up in a cold bed, wishing for protection and more children. He'd seek out her out, beg for her forgiveness on his knees, and promise to lay the world at her feet if she would agree to be his wife. Then he'd wed her, bed her, and see her Tully blue eyes shine like they had so long ago. She'd be happy as his wife, free to spend money on their household and splurge for whatever fripperies she wished. Their bed sport would be whatever she wanted, and he'd please her in ways she never would have imagined. Whatever she'd experienced with Ramsey Bolton or Jaehaerys Targaryen would fade from memory each time he joined with her.

He'd rise from their bed each morning, knowing he'd serviced her well, and instruct the staff to send a meal to their chambers. He would coax her to sit next to him and try some of the tastier delicacies served in the free cities. She'd appreciate the fruits and spices from warmer regions of the world. He'd love to see her in a silk dressing gown, sipping tea and smiling at him over the rim of her cup. Smiles would lead to compliments. Compliments would turn into kisses. Then he'd cajole her into his lap and coax the silk gown off as well. He could see her astride him, the morning sun setting her hair ablaze. Spending himself inside her with his mouth at her breast and daylight warming her skin.

With effort and little patience, her body would swell with child. During her delivery, he would be right beside her, supporting her through the labors and pains of childbirth.

She'd want a large family to replace the one she lost. A half dozen children might be an ample enough brood. Maybe they'd make a few more if his wife was keen on the idea. Ten children should be plenty. He'd let her rest between births, always careful not to breed her back to back. One babe every other year or so should be sufficient. They'd need a big family for what he had planned.

Their children would be diligently educated by the finest tutors in Westeros and beyond. They would have the best of everything, and he would give them a way to prove themselves in return. The boys, quick witted and clever, would lead key strongholds throughout the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Reach. The girls would make fine marriage prizes to the houses who wished to curry his favor. His daughters would be stunning, just like their mother. Of course, he'd never simply sell his daughters to anyone. He'd made that mistake before with Sansa, and she would no doubt fight him fiercely over such a decision. But should a suitor or two happen to spend an extended visit in their home and win a daughter's favor, then how could he or his wife refuse? Sansa was a romantic at heart, after all.

There were other ways to convince Sansa to marry him should a gentle wooing not be an option. If these self-sacrificing Targaryens managed to end the war end quickly, he would have to capitalize on her lack of protection. House Stark was small and vulnerable. Most of Sansa's bannermen would be wounded or frozen to death before the war ended.

What was to prevent him from riding down with the Knights of the Vale after the war was won and professing his love publicly? It was the stuff of stories and songs. If she didn't acquiesce to his request, he'd take her for a walk up on the battlements. While her arm was in his, he'd lay out the advantages of such a marriage match and point at the man who was holding her son on the window ledge of the nursery. The boy would seem amused enough, pointing at the sky at the clouds and clapping at the birds flying by.

A long drop for such a small child. Unsupervised children were always prone to take a tumble. And didn't his nurse say the boy loved climbing things?

Mothers were always prone to prioritize the wellbeing of their children over themselves. The boy would live if they were wed quickly and without a lot of fuss. Young Robb would remain amongst the living long enough to keep Sansa complacent and amiable to produce an alternative line of succession. Once Petyr's own brood were in place, there would be no guarantee Robb would survive to become Lord of Winterfell.

One day, after many years had passed, the boy could turn up dead. Accidents happened all the time, after all. He could be thrown from a horse at the age of twelve, or drowned while swimming with his friends at the age of fourteen. Never old enough to inherit the Northern throne or sire offspring. Just old enough for everyone to shake their heads and tut how young men seemed to attract tragedy so easily.

By that time, Sansa would be surrounded by more children. Others who would need her care and guidance. Sansa would never abandon their children to mourn the eternal memory of the eldest. She'd blame him, of course, should anything happen to the boy. She always would. Every scrape and bruise would be her husband's fault.

Then again, to create a sense of serene happiness in his home, maybe it would be a better investment to befriended the little northern prince instead. It would add legitimacy to his own name if he reared the last living Targaryen to be Lord of Winterfell and Dragonstone. The boy could be groomed to be a protégé and ally in his quest to reunite the seven kingdoms. Children were loyal little creatures, who never forgot the people who raised them. After all, little Robb would know no other father but him.

Sansa would be his wife. Where she went, the North would follow. The last surviving heir to House Targaryen would be his step-son, and under the protection of House Baelish. Any memory of the Dragon Queen and the King in the North would be swept away into the dusty pages of memory.

All Petyr had to do was wait for the Queen to lead troops into battle on the ground against the White Walkers, and the undead do the dirty work for him. This legend of the Azor Ahai was more than likely going to cumulate in Daenerys Targaryen, and Petyr needed the queen to survive long enough to end the Night King once and for all. While the queen was surrounded by the confusion and noise after the final battle, there were careful plans in place to ensure the queen would die in the melee swiftly afterward.

Royalty died in battle. It was the survivors who picked up the pieces and carried out the final wishes of the dead.

He would ensure the funeral was glorious, the stuff of legends. Daenerys Targaryen would burn on a pyre with the other honored dead. When the war was won, he'd ride south with her bones, acquire Sansa and her son along the way, and spend the winter in the Reach. The unsullied army, the Dothraki, and the queen's advisors would go back to the east to carry on the wishes of their late sovereign. The rest of the Westerosi bannermen would go home to ride out the winter.

Queen Cersei had already fallen into madness, and burned herself, her brother, and King's Landing to the ground with a large cache of wildfire. Petyr had raised a toast to her death and to the reports of the city which now lay in ruins. Flea Bottom was gone as well, the miserable wooden structures and ramshackle buildings had been destroyed in a tidal wave of green flame. Very few people had managed to escape. It was a blessing to have fewer peasants to feed during the winter.

With the Lannisters out of the way, the Iron Bank would be looking for someone to repay the country's debt. To ensure the bank's support, Petyr would need to reorganize the finances and government of Westeros. He'd send an emissary to the bankers with a hefty down payment. Lord Petyr Baelish wasn't a crowned king, his representative would state, but would the bankers consider supporting a man who would see the debt of Westeros paid in full with a comprehensive plan?

The stockpile of food stuffs he'd diverted outside several major ports throughout Westeros ensured he could inflate prices to his advantage. There were the trade deals already in place to keep a steady supply of goods coming from other lands throughout the winter. The noble houses of Westeros would pay a steep price for supplies and foodstuffs during the winter, and that money would be used to pay back the Iron Bank. With a healthy bit of interest, the Iron Bank would have its due.

As the man with the most land and influence, he would be in the strongest position to claim the throne. There were no other noble houses with the strength of armies or political connections to oppose him. Dorne could do as it pleased provided it agreed to generous trade deals. Tyrion Lannister could drink himself to ruin in Casterly Rock. The Iron Islands would be raided and the land salted come spring, in part due to the pirate contacts he'd secured through old channels. His nephew in the Vale was open to his influence. The Reach and the Riverlands were his to control. Sansa and her son secured him the North. The Stormlands would fall into line soon enough.

Let the younger Stark siblings curse his name. A cripple boy without a stronghold wouldn't be much of a threat. And the little sister who'd tried to accuse him of murder? He'd let her live as long as it was amusing. He'd have no trouble keeping the Stark Bitch and the Baratheon Bastard in their place. Neither had the money or the political influence to pull any plot together. The newly married couple could seethe silently in Storm's End, but at the end of the day, Arya and her husband would obey Sansa. His wife's influence would keep the Stag Lord and his lady in check.

Yes, he'd get the crown. He wouldn't win it in battle or by have it placed on his head by a septon. Everyone in the seven kingdoms would look around and see the man solving all the woes of Westeros was Lord Petyr Baelish. They'd offer the crown up to him on a platter. He'd just reach his hand out and accept it. The whole affair would make sense to most everyone, really. He would already be looking after the kingdom, unselfishly carrying out the wishes of the fallen Dragon Queen. Helping to rebuild the land after House Lannister set fire to their little corner of the world.

Come spring, Petyr would have a workforce with supplies in place to rebuild King's Landing better than before. He wouldn't even bother rebuilding the city to how he remembered it. No. He'd demolish the ruins and hire an architect from the west to build a new city with proper drainage, better dwellings, and green common spaces. He'd expand the port and build better roads and storage houses for increased trade. People would slowly return to the newly rebuilt city, ready to prosper under a golden reign, and be appreciative of all the changes he'd made.

The kingdom would see him as a family man, hardworking and sacrificing, without pretention or garish displays of wealth. A man who accepted the crown because his services were needed. Ruling from his temporary capitol in the Reach, small folk and nobles alike would buzz excitedly about the new royal family. It was an image worthy of a master painter's canvas. The beautiful and young red-haired wife by his side would look radiant, a toddler clutching her skirts and a babe asleep in her arms, while Petyr held his oldest child on his lap and the young Lord of Winterfell close to his side. A growing family already poised for greatness. It would be the type of tableau those who worshiped the Faith of the Seven would appreciate.

He'd reign long, successfully, and sow the seeds of a dynasty that would be chronicled, envied, worshiped, and admired for generations to come.

It was all so close now. Everything he'd ever wanted was nearly at hand. All Petyr Baelish had to do was wait.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	24. Chapter 24

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **I was trying to keep this a 'T' rated story, but that plan went completely out the window when I sat down to write this chapter. This story has already gone way over the amount of chapters I had planned. I'm still writing about 1,500 words a day, with several large updates scheduled for next week.**

 **Thanks again for the reviews! Your feedback is always appreciated.**

XxX

Chapter 24

When he'd imagined a reunion with his wife, Gendry hadn't contemplated an argument being at the forefront of their activities.

There should have been kissing, heated fondling, and maybe a long and hard coupling before the reality of the war set in. His wife, all 120 pounds of her, was a composed stockpile of dragon fire waiting for a lit torch. Not that he could blame her, really. She was good at choosing a time and a place to voice her frustrations, he'd just wished it wasn't when his sap was up. The heated flush of her cheeks and the sheer nearness of her presence had aroused parts of him which weren't interested in words, or talking for that matter.

Even with his friend facing certain death tomorrow, Gendry's mind was focused on plowing his own wife thoroughly first, and solving their problems afterward.

Arya wanted to talk, rage, and generally slit the throat of Lord Baelish and his supporters. Gendry understood completely. Even though he supported her view that Littlefinger should die quickly and by her brother's sword, his agreement wasn't helping to calm her at all.

If anything, it was making her more combative than ever. It was a dangerous alchemy. The more she worked herself up, the more his manhood was inclined to solve the situation over that of his brain.

It needed to stop.

"Jon is with the queen and her advisor. If Lord Baelish receives a reduced sentence instead of death, we'll have to deal with it. The queen has control over her husband's armies, but Baelish has strong support among the Vale lords. You heard them tonight. They won't believe he was going to harm your sister's son."

"I was there!" Arya said through clenched teeth. "The baby could have died, and no one would have been wiser. He would just faded in Sansa's arms, and it would have broken her. She wanted that baby, even before she knew she was carrying him. And Lord Baelish would have gotten rid of him anyway, just because he's Jon's son."

"The baby, you never say his name and what he is to you. Robb. Robb Stark is our nephew. Why don't you call him that?"

Arya took a step back, her eyes still shining with anger but something that he recognized as another wall going up around her heart. She didn't respond.

"If you think separating the babe from what he is to you is going to protect him-"

"That's not it," his wife bit back.

"Isn't it? Your sister has a son, living proof that your family is going to live on. He's fragile and important, and there's a man with connections that can snuff that little life out quickly with a song on his lips. Sounds like someone else I know who ran merry hell in the Riverlands before she found her way back home."

She didn't pale at his words like she would have been prone to do when they first met, but it cracked some of that newly erected wall she put up.

"How did you find out about the midwife anyway?" Gendry asked.

"Does it matter?" she replied quickly.

"It does when people start asking questions. How'd you find out?"

"I followed the two of them around. I saw the midwife snooping through the maester's workroom. I waited until the messenger arrived and killed the midwife's apprentice. I took the apprentice's face and caught the midwife just after she poisoned the baby."

Gendry rubbed his face. "Did anyone see you? Taking the face?" The dangerous expression she shot him had him holding his hands up in surrender. "Stupid. Shouldn't have asked. But the midwife. She wasn't confused by you wearing her apprentice's face?"

"She was surprised. I let her think it was a theater trick. She was more concerned about the letter that arrived than who delivered it." After a long pause, she seemed to switch gears again. "Jon's going to die tomorrow."

"No!" Gendry said firmly. "Not going to happen. He's part Targaryen, just like the queen. Jon will survive this."

"The queen!" The venom in Arya's voice dripped in a slow burn. The mistrust and anger in her tone was unmistakable.

"Yes! The queen!" Gendry bit back. "Stop thinking of her as an enemy and trust me when I say she's on our side. She's my queen and I owe her everything."

"You're exaggerating things!" Arya hissed through her teeth. "You don't know what she's capable of."

"And you do?" Gendry questioned. "Been working with her everyday now have ya? No? That's right, 'cause you haven't! I've told you before, she's not your enemy!"

"You pledged your life a woman who'd see my brother burn on a pyre for the scheming of a man. A man who wants to kill my family. I've heard people say Baelish held a knife to my father's throat when he confronted Joffrey for the last time. How do you know she and Baelish aren't working together?"

"Jon is her nephew," Gendry reasoned. "He's the only family she has left. Why would think she's so damn eager to toss him away?"

"Jon is in her way!" Arya exclaimed with hands clenched. "He's the rightful king, and Robb is next in line. Get rid of the two of them and the throne is hers for the taking. First Robb, then Jon. How many others will she throw into the fire to sit on a throne? With a wave of her hand, she could erase what's left of my family. Who's next? Sansa? Bran? Do you know what she called my father? The most loyal and honest man I've ever known? I heard Lord Tywin say she called my father the king's rabid dog. She has no love for our family. It's in her best interest to keep Jon close and compliant before she finds a way to slit his throat."

Gendry tried to keep his voice cool, but lost the battle when his voice cracked in anger. "Jon doesn't want the damn throne, and you know it. He's already agreed to let Daenerys take it. I told you she's what you think she is. I've seen her. The queen ain't a saint by any measure, but I've never seen her toss a man down or be cruel for her own pleasure."

"You don't know that!" Her voice changed pitch. "She's playing you for a fool!"

"I owe her my life, Arya!" Gendry roared. "Do you understand? She took me in, raised me up, gave me a title and my father's lands. And when I saw you, and fell in in love with you, all the queen did for me, it made me good enough for you. I wasn't some bastard boy from Flea Bottom anymore. I could ask you to marry me and know I wasn't bringing you down into the gutter."

Arya's eyes widened, her anger deflating. She looked at him in disbelief. "That's not true."

"Oh yeah?" Her husband snapped, his hands shaking and blood pumping. "You think your brother would have let you marry an armorer? A bastard armorer with no land and no money? Do you think he'd let you live in the hut next to the forge because you asked him to?" His wife opened her mouth, but had the good sense to close it without saying anything. "Without Daenerys Targaryen, I'd have nothing. Because of her, I have you, and you're everything I ever wanted. Don't ask me to choose between my wife and the queen, because I'm sworn to both. Gods! Why don't you trust me?"

Arya didn't falter, but she miscalculated by answering a rhetorical question. "I do. I do trust you-"

Gendry growled; he could tell when Arya was lying. Her words and poor choice of words made him angrier and more frustrated.

He grabbed her, taking his fill of her lips and crushing her to his chest. Gods, part of him wanted to slow down, wanted to be considerate, but all he could see was red and angry need. He could take her anger afterward, just as he'd done when they were younger. But just let him have her first, and he'd give her anything afterward.

There was a fumbling of unfastening the sword from her side, and while his hands were strong enough to rip her trousers in two, they were too busy keeping her close to his body and exploring the roundness of her bottom. His hand moved to the front of her trousers, exploring the smooth warmth roughly. Arya moaned into his mouth, and he growled in reply. He managed to untie the laces, and the fabric around her waist gave way. Hastily, he worked his hand past the fabric to the heat and warmth between her legs. He found the place that brought her the most pleasure. She gasped, and released a long sob.

The ground was closer, but colder. He didn't want to be cold anymore. Gendry drank from his wife's mouth while he hauled her to his cot. Her boots prevented him from stripping her trousers off completely. The hot part of him wanted to mount her, but the center of his chest reminded him, he wasn't that man. He wasn't his father. He wouldn't rut his wife like an animal just because he was angry. Just because she wouldn't listen to him. Just because she didn't trust his judgement as completely as he trusted hers.

Breaking with her lips, he managed one of her boots free and tore at the remaining trouser leg. He untied his own laces, and on his knees, fit himself inside her. He used the height of the angle and the strength of his body to dominate. Somewhere while he was feasting on her neck, he felt her shift below him, no longer a still spectator to his actions.

He raised his eyes to hers, and shame and guilt hit him. There were no tears, she was too strong for those anymore, but there was a look of blank acceptance written on her beautiful face. She looked so very young at that moment. Gendry's heart stopped in his chest.

Before they married, they'd been apart for six years. She'd flowered and acquired some soft curves of womanhood, but she was still just barely out of girlhood. He was a good seven years older, a foot taller and several stone bigger than she was. If Arya had stayed still and silent, he wouldn't have stopped. He would have taken his fill, spent himself, and faced her recriminations afterward. The world had made it imperative for both of them to grow up fast and marry just as quickly. But she didn't deserve this.

He'd broken his word to never lay a hand on her in anger. It was a vow he hadn't made lightly. Even during the worst parts of the war, Gendry had been in control himself. But since she walked back into his life, bringing heat and color into a dark world, he'd been on edge. He'd missed her, and they'd had no time to fill that loneliness before the world went mad again. Still, it was no excuse.

Gods, what a mess.

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing himself to stop. He said it again, lifting himself up onto his hands and giving them both space to breathe. "Arya, I'm sorry." He was still inside her, but even now he felt his length softening in shame. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, trying to clear the muddle of emotions and disappointment pumping through his head and chest. Gendry hoped she'd say something, anything. While he wasn't as angry anymore, he wanted her to throw words back. Another verbal sparring match was preferable to the silent doll-like figure laying prone below him.

She didn't say anything for a minute. Gendry was about to move when he felt her bootless leg wrap up and lock around his back.

His breath hitched. "Arya," he cautioned, his tone indicating she was playing with fire.

Arya's arms traveled up his elbows to his shoulders. One hand stroked the back of his neck and the other snaked to his chest and then to his back, pulling him back down atop her. Her legs spread wider to cradle him deeper inside. Gendry exhaled deeply, opened his eyes, and brought his forearms down around his wife to hold her close.

Her hand brought his forehead to meet hers. It was an intimate act, allowing him to breath the air around her face and take all of her in with each lungful of air. She initiated the first kiss; soft and lingering.

"You missed me." She said softly. "I could feel it. I missed you too," Her legs tightened. Her hips pushed up, the inner walls of her womanhood gripped him.

"I love you, Arya," Gendry said, his voice scratchy from raw emotion. His hips responded to her body with a slow deep thrust. "I love you so much."

Neither of them pushed for a faster pace at first, allowing for a lengthy round of soft slow pulses. He let Arya's eyes and body set the speed of how long and how deep she wanted him to go. As her legs tightened, he dove deeper. As her hips grew more demanding, he thrust faster. They shared kisses between long bouts of just staring into each other's eyes and exchanging emotions instead of words.

 _I missed you._

 _I worried for you._

 _I need you so much._

 _I don't want to do this without you._

Before he found his final peak, Gendry found the sensitive pearl between his wife's legs with his hand. Without urgency, he brought her to completion, and drank in the way she surrendered to ecstasy. Gendry needed several more minutes until he could find his own release. When he broke down and collapsed on top of her, he caught a deep breath. Knowing his weight was crushing her, Gendry tried to move.

"No," his wife demanded, retightening her legs around his waist. "Stay inside me."

"I'm not hurting you anymore than I already have," he said and tried to lift himself off.

"Please, Gendry," Arya breathed, her voice sounded fragile.

He found a way to mold himself around her without crushing her too much, and buried her face into his neck. They lay in silence for a long time, trying to acclimate to all the schemes, circumstances, and emotions being thrown at them all at once. When it got too cold to stay as they were, Gendry shifted, rolled them both to their sides, and separated from his wife. He kissed her, covered her with a blanket, and rose to redress himself.

The brazier in the center of the tent was cold. Gendry loaded the iron ring with wood, and while he kindled a flame, he saw his wife sitting up in bed, shedding the rest of her clothes under the warmth of the blanket. She never left the cot, but reached down beside her to gather larger bedcoverings. The fire came to life gradually, and by the time heat began to fill the tent, Arya had created a comfortable nest of furs and fabric. The space had felt small for just him, but it seemed to suit his wife rather nicely.

Gendry could feel Arya's eyes watching him from the cozy arrangement across the tent. He still felt like an arse. Arya had never told him she'd accepted his apology, and the honorable side of him felt he should sleep under a blanket near the fire during the night. He'd already mishandled this day pretty badly. Gendry's pride wouldn't let him be any more of a disappointment.

Working up the courage, Gendry stood, his work with the fire completed, and walked the few paces to his wife's bedside. She wasn't dozing exactly. Her eyes were open, but they snapped to attention when he approached. The heat radiating off her from under the covers could warm the coldest man in all of the frozen north. Gendry allowed himself to give his wife a gentle kiss on the head. He vowed silently to himself he wouldn't touch her again until they talked about what happened.

"I'll get you something to eat." he said quickly. Using the task of taking care of her as an excuse to cool down another flush of lust outside in the frigid air.

"You don't have to leave," Arya said swiftly.

"Yeah, I do." Gendry said with a grim smile. "You just got here, and there's been a trial, an argument, and I've forced myself on you." When the look in her eyes narrowed in disagreement, Gendry grew firmer. "You haven't been looked after proper. I'm a braying ass and a bruiser, but I'm not an idiot. You need food, sleep, and maybe a proper wash."

"I didn't come here for that," Arya countered. "Food, sleep, and all that stuff."

"I know," Gendry said placating. "Just let me get it for you anyway." He stood up and turned to walk out of the tent. The tent flap was just an arm's length away when he heard his wife call his name.

Gendry turned, thinking she had another request to add to his list. What he saw made his body go hard and his brain shut off completely. His wife was sitting reclined, one arm supporting her weight while the other seemed to be moving under the blanket. She'd pushed the blankets down, exposing her breasts but keeping the rest of her body completely covered. He could see how her legs tented the fabric, creating an unseen open space between her legs. He watched the hand under the covers reach its destination and begin to move in slow circles. Arya's eyes never left his. A loud gasp emerged from her throat.

Gendry's mouth went dry. Blood pumped in his ears. The center of his trousers went hard and began aching again. He hadn't taken more than a step toward her when she said, "Shirt, take it off." Never taking his eyes from the vision in his bed, Gendry shed the shirt and doublet. He was rewarded with a loud moan from his wife. Accepting her actions as a sign, Arya's hand had begun making circles in the other direction. "Boots. Hose. Leathers. Take them off." He'd never shed so much clothing so quickly in his life. When he was as undressed as his arrival into the world, he froze, waiting for her to say something. Anything. If she wanted him to watch, he'd watch. If she wanted him to wait, he'd stay. He was hers to obey.

Her movements under the covers made her voice erupt in spirts. "I need you." She panted. "I need you so much." Gendry didn't wait, he dove back to the bed, slid himself into the warmth of blankets, and affixed his mouth to the juncture of her legs. Hoisting her knees over his shoulders, he feasted on her center, licking, sucking, and plunging his tongue on her pearl and in her channel until she broke apart. He rested his head on her belly, his manhood still aching and hard. He could wait for her all day. All night. Whatever she wanted. Gods, when had she wrapped herself so tightly around his very soul?

He kissed and nuzzled her navel, thinking that if he could have no other pillow for the rest of his life, he'd be the most fortunate of men. The hand on his back encouraged him to keep going. After a few pleasant minutes, she moved to the side, guiding him to sit upright while she straddled his lap. Lowering herself down on his erection, Arya sighed in pleasure, and wrapped her legs in a tight circle around him. The position allowed her to lead the ebb and flow of their movements, and gave her more leverage to work herself on his length.

It was pleasure, patience, and brutal intimacy rolled into one act. He was glued to her body, his hands resting on her hips as she took him. They were almost the same height, and she used the position to caress his face with one hand and wrap the other around his shoulders. One of his hands left her hip and moved to her back, helping her to push and grind into him harder. He moaned when she moved on him.

"I'm right here," Gendry said, words slipping from his mouth in a torrent. "Trust me. Take what you want. However long. However long you want, Arya."

She slowed her movements, disengaging long enough to bring his hand back to her pleasure center, mimicking the movements she needed him to give. Gendry knew through experience what pressure she needed. Arms wrapped around his neck, she drank heavily his mouth and rolled her hips. Her movements, slow and languid, had become harder and deep. He watched as she reached her breaking point again. "Arya," he groaned. "Take it sweetheart. Take it all." She kissed him as she climaxed, riding him hard and, gasping at the air near his mouth. "I love you," she sobbed. "I love you. I love you. Love you."

Those words filled his chest with each breath. She rode him out as he released himself inside her with a hoarse shout.

Later, when she'd finally a comfortable place asleep on top of him, Gendry found himself giving thanks to the gods for the woman in his arms. It wasn't the reunion he had wanted, but Gendry was grateful for it none the less.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	25. Chapter 25

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks again for all the great reviews. I hope this update will keep you all entertained. I've had too many off shoot ideas, but they will have to go on the back burner while I finish another project.**

XxX

Chapter 25

It was Meera Reed and Missandei who found them first. Arya began to emerge from sleep when she heard the two women talking to each other on their way to the tent. The melodious voice of the queen's handmaiden floated on the cold night air and through the thick fabric flap.

"My Lord Baratheon. King Jaehaerys and Queen Daenerys requested for you and your lady wife to join them for late supper in his grace's tent."

Even with the light of the brazier, the tent was in partial darkness. The last breath of deep and restorative sleep, which had eluded Arya since her husband left Winterfell, broke when she felt Gendry move beneath her. She woke slowly to the feel of his body sliding out from under hers, and receiving a soft kiss to her mouth.

"We'll be there in a bit." Her husband croaked.

Gendry began reaching for his abandoned clothes and attempting to don them quickly. Arya watched her husband struggle into his hose and boots, which were just a foot from the tent opening.

The handmaiden's voice sounded confused, but polite. "Are you and your wife well, my lord? Should I send for a healer?"

"Don't need a healer, thanks." Gendry stammered as he hastily tried to readjust his leathers. "We'll be along soon."

"They're coupling," Meera Reed said bluntly, making no attempt to lower her voice. "Let 'em have at it."

"Coupling?" Missandei's voice was confused.

"Having relations," Meera replied helpfully. "Marital ones. Told you they'd be busy." The conversation growing lost in the uptick in the wind outside. Their voices began to move away from the tent and grow distant under the footfalls of leather against snow.

Arya sat up herself, eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness. Her clothes were somewhere nearby. Before she could move, her husband was picking her stray clothing up, shaking them out, and placing them in her lap on the bed. He was fast, and he didn't look at her while he found what she needed. When she began to dress he tossed a few more logs on the fire and fetched a basin.

"Give me a second, and I'll get water for you." Gendry said.

Arya shrugged her shoulders, and finished dressing by the time her husband placed warm water from the metal cauldron near the fire into his basin. There were cloths, not overly clean ones, but it did feel nice to wash her face and hands.

Although he helped her get ready, and ensured she was warm enough to walk through the frigid night air, Arya felt there was a barrier between them now. Gendry was still himself, but he was serving her in a capacity like that of a servant than a marriage partner.

Gendry wasn't a coward. Never had been. When he was wrong, he fessed to it. What Arya didn't like to see was how far away he was standing from her when he spoke.

"I'm sorry 'bout what happened earlier," he said firmly. "I was wrong, and I promised the day I asked to marry you that I'd never do something like that to hurt you."

She didn't move closer. He didn't try to touch her. She nodded to him, it wasn't forgiveness as much as it was an acknowledgement. "You're bigger, and stronger than me, but you didn't hurt me." She said.

"Arya-"

"You tried to take something without asking, which isn't like you at all." She wasn't angry, but there was a fierceness which sprung out of her words. "I know you, and you may have had a moment where it all went badly. You apologized, and made sure I was alright. When we've been…" she paused trying to find the right words. "Together, you've told me what you've wanted and I've done the same. Earlier, it was different. You didn't hurt me, you just – it was good. Most of it was really good. If you'd wanted to be with me and not talk at all, you just could have told me. Just tell me or something next time."

"Just tell you?" Her husband deadpanned.

"Or something." Arya reiterated.

"Alright." Gendry replied. His gaze became heated for a moment. "So that bit where you had me undress by the tent flap?"

"I saw how you looked at me. You would have stood there and waited however long I wanted."

"Yeah," Gendry said, scratching the back of his neck and looking contrite. "I would have waited. However long you wanted."

"I know." Arya stepped forward, stood on her toes, and kissed him softly. When she pulled away, she said, "I'll expect you to keep me warm tonight, and for however long I'm here. And you'll tell me when you want me, and how you want me from now on."

The guilt in Gendry's eyes softened. "As m'lady commands."

She grinned faintly then, and finished her absolutions. Before they left the tent, Gendry provided her with a larger fur cloak, which was better than the one she'd brought for the journey. It was getting too cold to hold hands, so her husband joined their arms and they ventured to the King's tent side by side. They walked in silence, picking up their pace a little as they neared Jon's tent.

The guards announced them, and when Arya shifted the flap away she found Jon and the queen speaking softly and sitting adjacent to each other near the small center table. A dense cloth screen divided part of the tent, Arya could just make out a figure laying prone on a bed. It must be Bran.

Jon greeted Arya with a firm embrace, holding her longer now that they had the luxury of being away from a crowd. It was so much like the last goodbye they shared in Winterfell years ago, that Arya felt her heart beat heavily in her chest.

"It's your last meal, isn't it?" The words popped out before she could stop them. Thankfully they were muffled by the fur of Jon's cloak. He seemed to be the only one who could hear them.

"The walls have ears," Jon said in a low voice. "We'll talk about it later."

When he released her, he smiled faintly and kissed her forehead. He didn't make a quip about her and Gendry's lateness, but peeking over the king's shoulder she could see the queen giving Gendry a knowing look. Their reason for their tardiness wasn't lost on anyone.

"You need to eat something," Jon said as he walked her to the table. "You both do." He and Gendry nodded to each other and waited to sit down until Arya was settled. It wasn't the most comfortable way to begin a meal. There was a tension which almost seemed to snap like the wind. With no one to attend them, Jon poured ale into each of their cups. Everyone else loaded their small plates with bread, cheese, and cold meat. They said little during the meal. Jon seemed to have less than anyone. He didn't seem to be drinking much either. Arya looked questioning at her brother.

"Not hungry," Jon shrugged.

"You should try something," Arya countered, eating her meal determinedly, in a disciplined fashion. After the lack of food on the journey north, the meal in front of her was a feast. "You need to eat."

"My nephew is stubborn," Queen Daenerys said kindly. "I tried in vain to see him eat at least a mouthful earlier. I was hoping your encouragement would have better results."

Arya bit back the retort on her tongue. She may not trust the dragon queen, but her husband and her cousin had harnessed themselves to Daenerys' cause. It was easier to slip back into the discipline of the Faceless Men, to adopt a neutral face and wait for the person to reveal themselves. Arya could be cordial when she wanted to.

She could be a lot of things if she wanted to.

Taking another swig of ale, Arya changed her tactic. "Maybe this'll help. I have a letter for you from Sansa." She pulled out a piece of parchment from her inner chest pocket. "She was so tired, she had me finish writing the end of it."

Jon read the letter at the table. He didn't recite it aloud, but Arya watched the way his eyes devoured each word. Her brother-turned-cousin may have lost his appetite, but he was he was hungry for news of home. The time it took for Jon to re-read the letter several times, the rest of them were able to eat most of their meal.

"The babe, Robb." Jon seemed to have trouble forming words. "Sansa says he's a fine weight with dark hair. You've held him. What does he look like?"

"He looks like you," Arya said bluntly, cramming a piece of chicken in her mouth.

Jon barked a laugh. It was a sound which had everyone else at the table smiling.

"He has your forehead and chin," Arya continued. "His face scrunches up like yours when he's eating. And he eats. A lot."

"Like a piglet," Jon supplied, a small smile on his lips. He remembered what she'd said earlier.

"Yeah, he does." Arya agreed. "All he does is sleep and eat. He hardly ever cries. He has a solemn face and blue eyes."

"Tully blue." Jon said carefully. "Like Sansa's?"

Arya nodded thoughtfully. "Like hers and Robb's."

The name of her dead older brother fell from Arya's lips, but it didn't leave a bitter taste in her mouth. Robb and mother had been avenged when she'd carved Walder Frey's throat out. The old man's death hadn't brought peace to her heart, but carving him and his sons up had been cathartic in a certain way.

Her brother's name had a different impact on Jon. She could see the way his eyes sorted through the memories in his mind. Happiness and sadness mixed together.

"It's good he has their eyes," Jon said slowly. "Robb would have like that. Would have needled me with it constantly." Arya nodded in response. Yes, her brother Robb would have been full of smiles for his nephew. Over the moon for a babe with the same Tully blue eyes of himself and his sister.

"He'll grow up hearing people talk about his uncle, the Young Wolf and the King in the North," Jon continued. "He'll want to know who he was named for. What Robb looked like, what he sounded like, what kind of man he was."

There was a silence for a moment, a long quiet of sadness for loved ones lost. Jon was slipping into a brood, which he was oft to do when he was thinking about Robb, her father, Rickon, and the other people who'd filled his life and were now gone.

"We'll do that," Ayra supplied confidently. "You, me, Sansa, and Bran. But you're forgetting, he's just a baby, and he doesn't have to be anybody but himself."

Jon nodded, shaking himself to the present. "Sansa, she's happy?" He asked poignantly. "Does she like being a mother?"

"She wanted him before she knew for sure she was carrying him," Arya supplied. "I've never seen her want something so badly. She started praying in the godswood again when she felt him move inside her. Now he's here, and she won't let him out of her arms. She sings to him all the time. She always had a good voice. She sings all the old songs Old Nan and mother used to sing to us when we were little."

"That's good," Jon smiled again. " _Hushabye Birdie_?"

Arya nodded. "And _Lullay My Sweet One_ and _Blue Eyed Ennis_. She was singing _Hush My Baby_ before I left. She's a good mother. The best, actually. She wants more, you know."

The casualness of the statement wasn't lost on her cousin.

"More?" Jon almost half croaked. "She does?"

"The maester said she didn't curse your name at all during childbirth, which is a good thing." Arya said breezily. "The day after Robb was born, I saw her kissing him and smiling at him, and Sansa said she wanted ten more just like him. I said what if all of them look like you, even the girls? Why would she wish that on anyone?"

Jon laughed again, and this time, Arya was sure it could be heard outside the tent. Gendry's wide grin and the queen's sparkling smile made her feel as if she'd fought a hard battle and won. In a way she had battled for the fortitude of her brother's will. She'd made him laugh even at the darkest of times.

Even if he died tomorrow.

Arya was the one who frowned first, her fingers reaching out to clutch her brother's strong hand. "Jon," she said, her voice grave and her resolve to discuss the prospects of the trial were strengthening. "What happens tomorrow?" She let her eyes tell him her concerns and frustrations.

It was the queen who spoke when Jon gripped her hand with his. "House Targaryen has accepted Lord Baelish's trial by combat, and House Targaryen will see it through to the end."

Biting back a retort, Arya looked at the queen, who looked steadily back in return. The lone finger she held up in the air cautioned for silence. Daenerys seemed to be shedding some of the queenly façade Arya had first witnessed. There was a calmness to her words, a confidence which spoke of experience. Nothing false or fueled by ego. A glimmer of something Arya could just sense as knowing.

The queen nodded to Gendry, who leaned to whisper in Arya's ear. "They don't call her the 'unburnt' for nothing."

The meaning of her husband's words were unbelievable, leaving Arya completely floored. The confusion and disbelief look on her face must have been evident, when Jon squeezed her hand and nodded as well.

The queen couldn't be burned. Fire wouldn't harm her. And they knew. Her brother and her husband. They both knew. Maybe even some of the advisors were in on it as well.

Eyes wide with disbelief, she turned to Jon. Arya didn't speak, choosing to mouth the words instead.

 _She?_ Arya jerked her head at the queen. _For you?_

Jon nodded stiffly. Arya could see he wasn't happy about it. Not one bit. That was the reason why Jon wasn't eating. He was worried. Not for himself, but for his aunt, the last remaining Targaryen woman and familial ally in all the world. Obviously he hadn't seen her confront fire on that scale with his own eyes, because if he had, his demeanor would have been different.

Before Arya could say anything further, the queen spoke in a gentle tone. "Everyone knows a true dragon cannot be burned by fire."

Gendry's eyes were an open book. Trust me, they seemed to say. Trust the queen.

Arya nodded thoughtfully. If the Daenerys was willing to lay down on a fiery pyre for Jon, the queen had some redeeming qualities. Arya grasped her cup in her hand and held it in salute.

"I'll drink to that," Arya said swiftly, and drank deeply.

XxX

The next day dawned clear and cold. The wraiths remained out of sight. Tension in the camp was bubbling high. Arya emerged from her husband's tent at the invitation of Meera Reed. The queen had requested arrangements for Arya to bathe in a private chamber within Castle Black. Although she had never met Lady Reed before, Arya took an instant liking to her. Sansa had pretty much bullied her into writing a letter of thanks to Bran's friend, and now Arya was glad she'd made the effort.

As they walked the twisting path through the hob scrabble camp, they spoke a bit about Bran and Arya's new nephew. Meera seemed pleased by the arrival of a babe into the Stark family.

"Bran couldn't stop jabbering about it," Meera supplied. "He said your nephew is a Stark through and through. All except the eyes."

Arya nodded thoughtfully. "My sister's eyes." There was no reason to burden them both with her older brother's death.

"You might be having one yourself soon." Meera said unabashed. "Gendry's a constant in this camp, either at his forge or taking shifts on the Wall. The fact he hasn't been seen or heard from since you arrived has made tongues wag."

Arya kept her face passive even when she wanted to roll her eyes like she would when she was seven. "We're married and I haven't seen him for months. What did anyone expect?"

"I expect you'd want a descent wash," Meera said with a cheeky smile. "Wouldn't mind one myself, but I've got to get back to Bran at some point. Just thought you could use the company."

It felt wonderful to bathe in the small tub near a stove by the kitchens. The older she got, the better it felt to be completely clean. Her husband tried his best to have water heated for her this morning, but it was too frigid to wash properly in the tent. A quick slap of hot water to vital parts had been the best they could achieve without getting too cold. The experience had Arya remembering the long lounging baths they'd taken in Winterfell right after they'd been married. From the look of longing and desire on her husband's face, Gendry was thinking of them too.

She'd make sure they had a whole week together alone in their rooms in Winterfell when he returned home.

When the water cooled, Arya dried and dressed quickly. Meera was waiting for her outside the room, and suggested they stop by Bran's bedside. "He may have need of us," Lady Reed said thoughtfully.

Arya hadn't seen Bran experience a vision, so what she saw surprised her immensely. The milky white eyes of her younger brother had her staring at him for a surprisingly long time. He was completely unaware of what was going on around him.

"He's like this a lot?" Arya asked Meera.

"Most of the time," Lady Reed replied. "He surfaces when he needs to tell us something, but for the most part he's out there somewhere, looking for the Night King through the eyes of any animal within several leagues of the Wall. The thing about Bran, he doesn't give up, and he doesn't surface unless he's ready. He'll stay out there all day and most of the night. Don't think he's slept in a day or so."

Arya spent most of the day by Bran's bedside, talking softly with Meera and learning more about their adventures north of the Wall. They ate what little food was left in the tent at midday, and by late afternoon, Jon and Gendry had returned.

"He hasn't woken?" Jon asked, checking Bran's blankets again for himself.

"No," Arya replied. There was nothing else to say really.

Leaving Meera with the youngest Stark boy, Jon, Arya, and Gendry walked through camp toward the pyre which had drawn a huge crowd of onlookers from every cross section of the camp. Dornish and Knights of the Vale, Dothraki and Unsullied, Northmen and Free Folk. Arya could feel the eyes of all of them watching the three of them walk purposefully to the pyre.

The queen chose to arrive in style, her heavy fur coat and intricately braided hair made her look like something out of a fairy story. She made her way to Jon's side, looking on patiently while the crowd moved aside for the final player in the trial to arrive.

Lord Petyr Baelish was unchained and looked untroubled. Any other man would have been sweating, swearing, or nervously clutching a blade in his hand. Arya knew that wasn't Littlefinger's style. He cut a calm, cool figure as he followed the unsullied soldiers to an allocated space near the queen. Baelish bowed respectfully to the dragon queen.

"Your grace," he greeted in monotone.

"Lord Baelish," the queen stated politely.

There was a small stalemate of silence before Lord Tyrion stepped before the taller lord. "My lord, House Targaryen extends you the opportunity to plea for a lesser charge to forgo this trial by combat."

Lord Baelish looked respectfully at the queen while he spoke. "What would House Targaryen offer, your grace?"

"Take the black and serve at the Night's Watch as their master of coin," Queen Daenerys replied firmly. "You would have the redemption and respect of the realm for such service, as well as your life."

"Your grace," Lord Baelish began. "How can I confess to a crime I did not commit? The gods will see my fate through."

"Very well, my lord." Daenerys replied. She nodded to Lord Tyrion, who announced the trial by combat to begin.

The queen's handmaiden Missandei assisted her mistress with the clasps of her coat, which left her in a simple white shift.

In a fierce voice which rang with bell-like clarity through the wind, the silver blonde woman proclaimed, "I am Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name and Queen of Westeros. I will stand as champion of my house."

An immense wave of sound erupted from the crowd. There were bets being taken and shouts of encouragement heard in various languages from most of the known word. Lord Baelish looked surprised, but said nothing. The political calculus going through his head would be weighing the advantages and pitfalls of such a move.

Holding out her hand delicately to her nephew, both king and queen walked calmly to the pyre, where a large empty space had been constructed near the middle of the log base in full view of the crowd.

"You don't have to do this," Jon said fiercely when they arrived at their destination. His eyes were two wells of turmoil.

"Long ago, my father tortured and killed your grandfather and uncle," Daenerys said solemnly.

"King Aerys was my grandfather as well," Jon interjected.

Daenerys shook her head. "The Mad King dealt with Rickon Stark and your Uncle Brandon cruelly and unjustly. Your Stark family has lived with this pain and injustice for long enough. Today, I intent to right that wrong by saving you from the fire and bringing a would-be murder to justice. I would see this history righted. For you. For your wife and son. For the cousins who are as good as siblings to you. Your family has already sacrificed too much for Westeros. I will not see any of your mother's house suffer such a loss again."

With those words, his aunt placed her hands on either side his handsome face, and kissed Jon gently on the forehead.

"You'll need these," Jon said when they parted, and from his cloak revealed a small sack with the three dragons eggs found in the Winterfell crypts. "I heard you helped to hatch three dragons on a pyre before. Maybe this is the chance to gain a few more."

Daenerys nodded with a soft smile, and took the sack from Jon's hands. With a nod and one last look, he walked away to his sister's side.

Lord Baelish was the one to light the pyre with a large torch. The smell of oil, wet wood, and dead bodies filled the air as the pyre came to life in a small sea of flame. Clutching the bag close to her chest, the dragon queen's figure quickly became obscured by the dancing flame and smoke of such a wild inferno.

The crowd became silent as each man strained to hear the shrieks of the queen through the roar of the fire, but none came. As the pyre fire continued, some of the soldiers sat, drank, and watched the pyre burn. The ones closest to the fire stood as still as sentries, watching for any indication that the queen had survived the fire.

"You should call this off, Lord Tyrion, and send the men to their beds," Lord Baelish suggested in a smooth voice. "What use is it to let them watch their queen's body burn?"

"Your champion is still fighting," The Queen's Hand said just as diplomatically. "The trial isn't over until the fire is out. We have a long way to go yet."

One by one, soldiers and nobles alike sat on the cold ground. Some left to find their beds. Others huddled together watching the flames dance through the night. Arya sat between Jon and Gendry, both of them providing her with warmth through the night as they waited for the fire to burn itself out. The hours ticked by, and Arya found herself drifting in and out of sleep. She could see faces in the fire she hadn't thought about in many months.

Sandor Clegane. Jaqen H'ghar. The Red Woman.

The memories of each slid through her mind with each wave of drowsiness. Eventually, Arya succumbed to sleep completely. When she awoke several hours later, she found herself sheltered in her husband's arms surrounded by his warmth and the folds of his cloak. He was sleeping as well, his face tucked into her hair and his body obscuring hers from the cold.

As Arya shifted in his arms, she could see the thin grey of dawn breaking on the horizon. The pyre must have burned all night. There were few flames left now, most of them dying slowly in the cold morning air. Jon and Lord Tyrion were standing, watching the smoke clear from the remains of last night's pyre. There were a few hundred people sleeping or watching the flames die down to nothing.

Lord Baelish stood looking appraisingly at the charred logs and ash. He looked tired, but confident. A few flames remained, but they were burning out as well. Bones from the bodies of the dead burned with the pyre could be spotted next to the charred remains of the large logs.

With the amount of smoke and black remnants of the fire obscured the sight of the witnesses. As morning sun dispelled the darkness obscuring the land, curious eyes strained for some sign of the dragon queen. Finally, a cold chilly wind extinguished the last of the flame and smoke, leaving the pyre a cold ruin.

Arya found herself holding her breath. She was waiting for the queen to emerge just like everyone else. Even though it seemed absolutely unlikely, Arya found herself hoping anyway.

Hoping this trial would end. Hoping Lord Baelish's head would be mounted on a pike before midday.

Waiting to breathe again.

There was a small movement at first, just a slight shutter as soot and ash shifted in the still morning. A figure, hidden by a pile of ash, sat upright. The figure stood, the dark aftermath char dust and soot coating skin.

The queen emerged from the pyre slowly, three newborn dragons clutching at her body with their sharp little claws. She stood naked and proud, the shrill sounds of the dragons squawking breaking the winter quiet.

There were yells and cries from the soldiers witnessing the reemergence of the dragon queen, and men of all births and rank fell to their knees before her presence.

Daenerys stopped suddenly, admiring a small flame feeding on a log at her feet. She let the fire consume its source for a moment longer before snuffing it out with her foot. The dragons chirped as their mother continued her journey to the men assembled nearby.

When it was clear what they were witnessing, the noble lords and their attendants knelt before Queen Daenerys. She stopped in front of Petyr Baelish, who swept to his knees in respect and awe.

"Your grace," He said cautiously.

She let him kneel there briefly before summoning her handmaiden. Missandei assisted the queen with her coat, the dragons were shifted from one side of her body to another as the garment was fastened to her body. When her attire was set to rights, the queen looked out over the sea of kneeling men. The only ones still standing were her nephew, Jaehaerys Targaryen and his cousin Arya Stark. Both of them nodded their respect to her when she met their gazes.

"Lord Baelish, your champion has been vanquished. I hereby sentence you to death," Daenerys proclaimed loudly.

"How will you carry out this sentence?" His lordship's voice sounded strangled.

"By the sword," the queen replied smoothly. "Sentence to be carried out immediately."

Petyr Baelish looked shocked when Lord Tyrion yelled "Bring the block!"

A small log which had been fashioned and held aside for the execution was produced. The men in the crowd yelled in affirmation. It all happened so suddenly the guilty man had barely any time to fashion a rebuttal to the sudden turn of events.

"Your grace!" Lord Baelish yelled in supposition. "Your grace, I can help you with many important matters. The Iron Bank! The Ironborn reavers! I can give you with both!"

Daenerys looked unaffected by the offer. She turned her back on the Lord of the Fingers and walked to her nephew waiting a few steps away. His hand was tightened on the hilt of the sword at his side, and his stance was one of fierce anticipation. When the queen dropped her hand on his arm, Jon stalked toward the block, sword drawn and at the ready.

This was justice. Justice for the near murder of his son Robb Stark. Vindication for Sansa and her father Eddard Stark. Freedom for the realm from Littlefinger's meddling forever more.

Remembering how his Uncle Eddard had had conducted himself when he passed sentence, Jon held his sword respectfully in front of him. "In the Name of Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, I, Jaehaerys Targaryen of Houses Stark and Targaryen, King in the North, sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?"

Lord Baelish was composed, but his eyes were manic in a way Jon had never seen before.

"I've had your wife," Baelish said smoothly. "She gave herself to me for several months before you were wed."

The insinuation was clear. Sansa had been unfaithful and Robb wasn't his son. The law of realm dictated a birth father could rid himself of any natural child he had out of wedlock. Any other man would have faltered, ceased the execution to beat the truth from anyone who would have accused their wife of such infidelity.

Jon didn't blink, and he didn't wait for more than a few seconds to respond.

"No, she never did." Jon replied with confidence and determination. And he swung the sword downward with a killing stroke. Lord Baelish's head rolled from his body and in the snow, his eyes and political mind finally ceasing their scheming.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	26. Chapter 26

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 26

It had been a day which began in fire, so it was poetic to see it end in blood.

Lord Varys stood next to Lady Olenna Tyrell during the execution of the midwife from White Harbor. After another trial, the accused woman was found guilty and sentenced to death, this time by the King in the North. There had been pleas for mercy, and without the support of a high noble to stay the execution, Janica the midwife would lose her head.

The drivel the woman had spouted during her trial had been pathetic really. Varys would have expected a skilled woman of her background to fabricate a better story. Little birds in White Harbor found a kernel of truth to the tale. The midwife did indeed have a sister, but she was far removed from a humble farmer's wife. A whorehouse madam and her two ill begotten children were far from the image of the poor and desperate woman spun in the court testimony.

The madam and the midwife had been associates for Petyr Baelish for many years, and shadowy ones at that. Their skills weren't utilized in a consistent manner, but the two of them had managed to help Baelish out from time to time, the madam offering carnal favors to powerful men and her sister the midwife ridding those same figures of their baseborn offspring.

Two women with cleverly opposing skillsets. Littlefinger had been wise to seek them out.

The madam had been the go between for the midwife and Lord Baelish, passing on her sister's reports from Winterfell as business correspondence from White Harbor. The madam had already fled to the free cities, and the sister was about to be beheaded for attempted murder. Their shared money-making relationship was coming to an end – at the point of a blade it seemed.

As the Master of Whispers, Varys had shared his findings with the King in the North privately before the trial. The odd tidbits which had floated in from Winterfell over the last few weeks had been equally damning to the accused. The Lady of Winterfell had no idea the midwife was sent by Lord Baelish to kill the babe in her womb. Lady Sansa had been cautious, protective, but in good spirits during her pregnancy. She'd taken to praying in the godswood each day, taking long walks in the glass gardens with her sister's direwolf, and sharing her anticipation about the babe freely with the woman charged with her care.

They seemed to have bonded at one point when they searched the upper storage rooms of Winterfell together and found a wooden rocking cradle; the same one used by the Stark family for generations. Lady Sansa had shed tears, the midwife had dabbed them away, and the cradle had been brought down to be cleaned and placed in the main solar.

The king's face had grown cold when a copy of a letter sent between Lord Baelish and the midwife surfaced from one of Varys' White Harbor contacts.

 _The child is guilty of nothing save the inconvenient identity of its father. Give it a gentle exit from this world - a slow decline so as to make it seem like a failure to thrive. Allow the babe to sleep and expire in its mother's arms, and comfort her the best you can. She will need gentle handling afterward. She must believe the loss was not her fault. Should the lady need a reason, tell her the stress and trauma she experienced in her earlier marriage may have played a part, but that nature is sometimes cruel. Have her look to a happier future after the war when her body has healed she will be able to bear more children._

Varys had given the king time to process the letter. It was a burden felt by the young Targaryen who shouldered the fragility of his family's lives with each waking moment. Any other man would have left straight away for home to protect his wife and son with his own sword. Varys could see the same wish in the eyes and expression of the King in the North. As a former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jaehaerys had a will of iron, as well as a sense of unbending resolve to win the ongoing war against the Night King. Thanks to Eddard Stark, Jaehaerys had been raised to place personal want aside for the good of others. It was a steep sacrifice, and it was a trait little heard of in a man who had never been raised to shoulder the responsibilities of kingship.

If they survived this war, Jaehaerys Targaryen would be one of the best remembered rulers Westeros had ever seen. His name would be imprinted on the hearts and minds of all the people in Westeros and beyond. He and his aunt, Queen Daenerys would usher in a new golden age of peace to the realm.

A Dragon in the North, and a Dragon in the South. Dragons protecting the seven kingdoms for years to come.

But not without sacrifice. Not without pain. And not without loss.

Jaehaerys Targaryen had been in no mood for mercy when he approached the execution site. The midwife began sobbing from her kneeling position in front of the block. The king's sword had already tasted the blood of Petyr Baelish earlier that morning. It had one more task to fulfill before darkness enfolded the camp. The thousand or so soldiers and nobles who had assembled to see justice served shared the same somber expression.

"Do you have any last words?" The king's words were directed quietly to the woman who was about to die.

There were tears and a final plea for mercy. "I beg mercy, yer grace. I did as I was told."

The king nodded. He passed sentence, and Varys could see echoes of Eddard Stark in the bearing and words being recited. Varys had never seen a northern execution, where justice was dealt in a swift, brutal, and honorable fashion.

The woman was held down, her neck laying prone atop the stained wood. The blood from Lord Baelish's body still clung to the wood surface. Without hesitation, Jaehaerys Targaryen, lifted his sword, and brought the blade down swiftly to separate the midwife's head from her body.

There was no applause, but an exhale of relief could be heard on Varys' left where Lady Arya Stark and her husband Lord Baratheon were watching the execution. They'd no doubt retreat to comfort each other all night in his lordship's tent. In a few days, the younger Stark sister would be on her way home safely back to the confines of Winterfell.

"Well, that's over." Lady Olenna said bluntly when the king turned and began stalking away. "Lord Varys, would you be so kind as to escort me to someplace warm. I could use some refreshment."

"An invitation I can hardly refuse," Varys replied smoothly. Together they ambled through the dispersing crowd, taking note how the king carried the dripping sword in his hand and walked determinedly to the entry lift up to the top of the Wall. It was the king's habit to walk the top of the wall surveying the state of their defenses. There were a few sentries, but tonight, Varys had the sense Jaehaerys Targaryen was in need of the type of solitude only seven hundred feet of ice could provide.

"He should have an armed escort," Lady Olenna observed.

"I agree. But he no doubt needs his space right now," Varys said.

"He broods too much," the older woman stated. "It's a dominant Stark trait, but it could get him killed."

"Ser Davos is close to the king, and knows his moods well," the master of whispers replied. "No doubt he'll fetch the king if he's gone atop the Wall too long."

They made idle small talk though the walk to Lady Olenna's tent, its small but cozy interior was large enough for a bed, two chairs, a trunk, a table and little else. The attendants scurried to see their lady set to rights, made comfortable with a lap blanket with a brazier nearby, and supplied with food and drink.

"I shudder to think about the fallout over Lord Baelish's death." Lady Olenna began. "The man could have more traps in place upon his death than he ever had in life."

Varys was not one to dull his senses during a crisis. The wine was a sign of hospitality, so he partook of a sip and took his time in formulating a response. "My little birds are still singing of plots yet unknown, but it's only a matter of time. Littlefinger would have maneuvered his way to the throne one way or another, whether after this war or in a few years' time. His misstep with Sansa Stark was his downfall. The lady may have the looks of her mother's family, but she is a Stark, and a smart one at that. I think all of Westeros has you thank for the tutelage you gave her in King's Landing."

Lady Olenna batted away the compliment. "It was nothing like the education Sansa learned when she left the capitol to go home again. When Lord Baelish revealed his plans to take her to wife, all his fool scheming made sense. He tipped his hand before he could play the final cards. Had circumstances been different, Petyr Baelish would be a few heartbeats away from sitting on the throne right now."

"With Sansa Stark sitting at his side." Varys pointed out.

"Not by choice." Lady Olenna shot back. "He would have waited her out, knocked any would-be suitors out of her way, threatened her son, frog marched her up the aisle, and kissed her clenched mouth at the altar."

"Sounds like a smart plan," Varys said with a nod. "Cold, business-like. It certainly would have been a neat little package."

"Now he's dead, and his last words muddied the waters of a barely respectable marriage," The queen of thorns pointed out. "The Hand of the Queen and Ser Davos will be putting out fires so to speak for years to come."

Varys didn't agree. "The dates don't add up. Littlefinger was nowhere near Winterfell during the child's conception, he was holding Moat Catlin for the King in the North. The insinuation can be brushed off as a last ditch effort to save his own life. A man will just about anything when their head is about to be separated from their bodies."

Lady Olenna shook her head worriedly, her hands pausing the wine glass close to her lips. "The world marches on. The Night King schemes away hidden in the night, and winter is picking at our bones. The king is on the wall keeping the soldiers united and the queen is in camp holding all the political factions together. What now, I wonder?"

Varys nodded. "What now indeed?"

XxX

Sansa Stark was sitting at her window, watching the patterns of sunlight play across the features of the baby in her arms. Exhaustion was a constant companion, and without Nymeria in the room, Sansa couldn't bring herself to slide back into bed and doze off with Robb in her arms. Her sister's direwolf, her companion and protector these past few weeks, left her solar to eat, hunt, and answer the call of nature. She wasn't away long, but when she was, Sansa's anxiety came to the surface.

A glimmer of sadness and understanding was in her heart now for her mother's sister Aunt Lysa. Where the Lady of the Vale couldn't claim exhaustion on her physical condition, Sansa had compassion for her aunt's mental turmoil. Lysa's concern and nurturing of Sweetrobin had bordered on irrational, but Sansa could see how the need to protect a child could overwhelm common sense.

Robb was awake, his little face staring up at her, eyes blinking in the light from the window. He'd nursed, been changed, and was nearly ready to go back to sleep, but now he was solemn and watchful. Sansa felt like she could look at his face for hours and never grow board. She could see her husband in the baby's features, but at other times she could see traces of her father and brothers as well. He was a Stark, with big blue Tully eyes.

And when those eyes locked with hers, Sansa felt herself melt a little each time.

She wished Jon was here to see what they'd created. Their little boy with the Stark continence and a quiet disposition was gaining weight and thriving. Her husband deserved the joy of holding their son close, marveling at how he was growing a little more every day. In her mind's eye, Sansa could see him taking delight in the way their son held a finger in his tight little grip, and calming Robb in his arms as the baby drifted to sleep.

It was a lovely dream. One she wished she could see for real instead of in the snatches of sleep she allowed herself each day.

A knock broke the silence in the room, with Maester Wolkan announcing his arrival. Sansa bade the maester to enter, and the door creaked open tow allow Nymeria and the black cloaked master entry.

"A raven just arrived from the Wall," Maester Wolkan said kindly. He stopped by every few days to check on the baby, but so far there had been no signs of poisoning or illness. Wolkan delivered the note to his lady's by hand and smiled down at the baby. "I'm at your grace's disposal should you need anything."

"Thank you maester," Sansa said, her nod dismissing the man from the room.

When the door had closed, Sansa adjusted the babe in her arms and broke the dragon seal on the note. With a heart beating fast in anticipation, she read the words on the page. It was a short note, which at any other time would have been a disappointment. But this time, her husband's message penned in his tidy scrawl made her eyes well with relief.

 _The Lord Baelish and the midwife have been tried and sentenced. It is done. Jon_

Tears overflowed down her cheeks as she read the note again, kissed the head of the babe in her arms, and thanked all the gods.

Petyr Baelish was dead. Her son's almost murderer was dead. Security at last.

Reading the note for a third time, Sansa let the months of worry and fear flow freely down her face. Robb looked at her in confusion for several minutes, then seemed to accept the outburst with his usual somber aplomb.

The fear and mistrust she'd been holding as closely as her son was dissipating. It would take time to find someone trustworthy to watch and care for her son, but with Littlefinger dead, she could finally sleep peacefully at night.

Kissing Robb one last time, Sansa left her seat next to the window and placed her son in the vacant rocking cradle near her bed. It was the cradle she remembered her mother using when Rickon was born. Old Nan had said the cradle had rocked every generation of Starks for as far back as she could remember. Sansa could hear the old woman's voice, just as if she was sitting in her chair across the room. Humming an old tune at first, after a few moments Sansa began to sing.

 _Lullay my liking,  
My dear son, my sweeting  
Lullay my dear Heart  
Mine own dear darling  
I saw a fair maiden  
Sitten and sing  
She lulled a little child  
A sweete lording  
Lullay my liking  
She sang to the baby  
Her joy at his birth,  
Of alle the creatures  
You are the dearest one on Earth_

The babe settled into his blankets, his eyes closing. He drifted off to the tune and the gentle rocking of the cradle.

When her son had fallen into slumber, Sansa slid gratefully into bed. Nymeria left her warm spot by the hearth and padded happily over to the baby.

"Let him sleep, Nymeria." Sansa sighed, feeling the weight of sleep on her eyelids.

The direwolf whined slightly, but laid down next to the wooden rocker obediently. The soft snorts and pants of the wolf complimented the crackling fire in the room.

For the first time since her son was born, Sansa laid out flat in her own bed, and snuggled under the covers.

 _Thank you, Jon._

She gave thanks to the old gods and the new for her husband, prayed for his safety and well-being, and promptly fell asleep.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	27. Chapter 27

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 27

The weather turned overnight, and it snowed harder and longer than ever before. Arya had woken in the small bed she shared with Gendry to the sound of men grunting and traipsing in the snow outside. With a feeling of unease, she shook her husband awake. He came to with a look of confusion. Arya silenced him with a kiss and a head jerk to the sounds outside. The two of them dressed quickly, each attaching weapons to belts, and donning a cloak to fend off the cold, exited the tent into an ocean of white.

It was more snow than she'd ever seen in her life. There were men with brushes pushing the snow out of the way of the main camp lines, piling up the excess between each tent. The whole of the camp was being buried, and it wouldn't be long until the snow was well past her knees.

"This is bad," Gendry surmised when he met Arya's steady gaze. They scrambled through the snow together toward the king's encampment, but Arya found it rough going through the dense snow. The sea of white made it hard to ascertain their exact location, and by providence her husband recognized the voice of the King's Hand organizing the men of the north to action.

Ser Davos was rallying some of the northern bannermen for a trip to the wall, and his rousing words were clear through the heavy fall of the snow. "Wraiths have been sighted near the wall! Take your weapons and meet the king up top!"

"Ser Davos!" Gendry yelled as he approached.

The older man greeted the two of them with a motion to join him. The concern in older man's eyes had Arya thinking something was terribly amiss.

"Are we under attack?" Arya asked, panting a bit from the extra effort of running quickly through the snow. Her keen eyes were darting up to the top of the wall where torches could be seen moving through the thin winter sky.

"The bells haven't been sounded, but it was only a matter of time," Ser Davos replied. "My lady, I know you were planning to stay longer, but for your safety I urge you to leave. Who knows what may be coming toward us."

"Who's taking care of the snow?" Gendry asked, motioning to the men hurriedly pushing and sweeping snow through the straight thoroughfare areas of the camp.

"Some of the younger men from the south and a few of the unsullied boys." Ser Davos replied. "This snow will bury us all if it's not cleared up. If we can't get men to the wall, we won't have the numbers to repel the wraiths. I'm sorry, but I must go. The king spent the night on the Wall. He'll need a few more commanders up there. Join us when you can, my lord."

Gendry nodded, and the two of them watched Ser Davos disappear into the crowd of men leaving to support their brethren on the battlements above.

Looking around, Gendry motioned for his wife to join him in the king's tent. The brazier was unlit and empty, a sure sign Jon had not returned to his bed during the night. Bran was lying motionless in his cot, shielded from prying eyes with a thick curtain screening him from view. It was sad to see her younger brother laying alone without someone nearby to protect him. Wherever Meera Reed was, she was probably being held up by the movement of men and overwhelming elements outside.

Gendry took one appraising look around the chilly quarters before he began grabbing provisions, a flint, and an extra cloak. Arya was confused about her husband's actions until he began reaching for items at hand and stuffing them in a large sack he found nearby.

"What are you doing?" Arya asked, part of her already knowing the answer to her question.

"Getting you the hell out of here," Gendry replied. "Com'on. I've got a sword for you at the forge. We'll pick it up on the way."

"On the way where?"

"Out the gate and back on the King's Road to Winterfell. Your horse should be in the stables." Gendry's voice was one of calm and level headed planning. The only urgency she felt was from the way his lips pressed firmly in a line, a common sight when he was worried. "I'll take you there now."

"I'm not leaving you," Arya said calmly. Her mind had been made up before she fell asleep the night before.

"Your sister needs you in Winterfell," Gendry countered, his eyes growing flinty.

"And I need to be with you," Arya replied just as coolly. "I left Nymeria at home to watch over her. She and Robb will be fine now that Lord Baelish is dead."

It was a disagreement of which neither one of them was willing compromise. "I need to know you're safe and away from this place," Gendry stated directly, holding the sack in his hands and taking one last look around for anything useful. "Jon would want you away as well. It'll give him piece of mind that you're leaving."

"I want to stay," Arya said determinedly. With the trial of Petyr Baelish and the treacherous midwife over, there was no reason for her to leave her husband's side.

Whatever Gendry was about to say was interrupted when shouts were heard outside. Alarm bells jolted the camp to action as they began ringing from the Wall above. Arya heard the rabble of men make the call to arms, their cries alerting others throughout the camp.

The noise seemed to harden her husband's resolve. "I want you out of this mess." Gendry said briskly as he pulled her close. "I'm not saying you don't know your way around a sword, because I know it. Half the lads in camp have seen it. But if you're safe somewhere else, I don't have to worry about something happening to you. I won't be looking over my shoulder or to the side thinking about a sword coming down on your head."

"I can handle myself," Arya shot back with a fire burning in her belly.

"I've never doubted it," her husband agreed, pulling her closer and kissing her softly. "You are everything to me. So, if something happens here, I want you as far away as possible."

There was a terrible logic to his words, Arya thought as she nodded her head stiffly. Protecting oneself was better than trying to fight on the behalf of two people. She remembered what Syrio Ferrel told her about staying with her troubles. If she was on the Wall with her husband, she would be on his mind, keeping him from fighting properly.

A distracted mind left the body open to a quick death.

Arya nodded in surrender, feeling Gendry pull her close and sigh in relief. He held her for a few seconds, surveyed the tent one more time, and taking her hand, led them both back into the cold.

The forge was a quick walk made longer by the sheer amount of men pushing and shoving their way through to the Wall. Overhead, Arya gaped when she saw three dragons swoop overhead, gnashing their teeth and screeching through the skies. Gendry gave the dragons a quick glance, but continued to hold his wife close beside him toward the forge and the stables. By the time they had fetched a short serviceable sword and from the heated innards of the workshop and saddled her horse, another round of bells were tolling from the wall.

Gendry's face, which had been impassive and determined cracked into a worried expression. "Part of the wall's been breached." He said shortly. "Let's get you out of here."

There wasn't enough space for her to ride through the troops without causing injury. Arya ran beside the horse while her husband led with its bridle. For all the matte colors of dirty snow, muddy ground, greying timbers, and black metal, there were flashes color in the armor of organized groups of men making their way to relieve the troops or reinforce the steel entryway of the door. The dragons continued their screeching and chittering, and Arya could hear the sound of flame and yells from the men from above.

By the time she arrived at the rear exit gate, the six men manning the door called them to stop. "I'm sorry, m'lord," a guard intoned urgently. "You cannot pass."

"My wife is leaving," Gendry's voice grated with anger. "She needs to go now!"

The guard shook his head. "M'lord. The snow is too high. We're buried in. It's pressing against the gate from the other side. A group of the Queen's riders made it through last night, but just barely. Two of their horses died on the ride from Eastwatch. The snow has drifted and beyond our gates it's well past a horse's chest. Even if I could let your lady out, she wouldn't be able to find the road south. We're trapped."

"Fuck." Gendry blew out a breath. His eyes looked haunted in a way she hadn't seen since they were held prisoner in Harrenhall. It was the look of a man who had everything to lose and very few options, and it made her feel as if the winter wind was blowing right inside her chest.

He took a moment to assess the situation, and motioned to the guard to come closer. "Take the horse back to the stables and make sure he's tended to. I'll need your friend there to walk my wife to the king's tent." His voice wasn't unkind, but it held the type of authority and direction held by a competent battlefield commander.

"We're on guard duty, m'lord." One of the guards stated tersely. "We cannot abandon our post."

Gendry was not amused. "It takes six of you to guard a gate no one can pass through? Where I come from we call that a wall. The lot of you, standing around with your backs to a wall when we've a breach in our defenses? We can spare a few men from guard duty if no one's coming or going, right?

The men standing guard had the humility to shuffle their feet and look slightly embarrassed. The closest guard took Arya's horse and led it in a quick step back to the direction of the stables. Another left his post to approach the two of them. "I'll escort your wife, m'lord."

Gendry reached for Arya to bring her in for another embrace. He squeezed her hard, and she squeezed him back. This was unlike their rushed and frenzied parting the morning he left for the wall, as he seemed to be imprinting her into his very chest. It was different dynamic too, her stash of moon tea had been lost on the journey north. She'd confessed her oversight the first morning they'd woken up together after their reunion, and the revelation hadn't dimmed her husband's eyes at all. If anything, his continence had been hopeful, and he'd been more ravenous for her than she'd ever imagined.

If Gendry was anywhere as potent as his sire, she could be breeding right now. Pressed close to him with the war just a few feet away, Arya felt more receptive to the idea of bearing their children now more than ever. For a moment, she understood Sansa's mad hope of conceiving a child after just a few exchanges. Arya didn't necessarily want a child this very minute, but the idea of producing a much wanted and dearly loved child made the hell of the war easier to bear. She didn't fret about her ability to produce heir for Storm's End when they were first married. It seemed like a concern meant for an unknown point years ahead. But the idea of forgoing at least the possibility of a child now constricted her heart. If she didn't conceive during their time together here in camp, it was entirely possible she'd have nothing left of him if he died defending the Wall.

She was a Stark after all. Direwolves mated for life. What was left of her heart would continue half beating from the loss of her husband. If she had a child in tow, their family would survive.

"I need to go," Gendry said shortly, his chest reverberating with the words. His arms may have had the strength of steel, but his heart was soft, warm, and entirely hers.

"I know," Arya replied. There were no tears. No pleas for his safety. Arya sent him off with a gentle kiss and an encouraging nod. "Go. I'll see to Bran."

The words seemed to break some of his frustration. Gendry kissed her again, hard and deep. He released her, and began to run in the direction of the Wall to her cousin the king, and the men who needed him. As Gendry disappeared into the throng of soldiers, Arya made up her mind to take over Bran's protection detail herself. She was exchanging the well-being of one sibling for another, but she knew protecting her crippled brother was a much better use of her skills. If she was trapped in the army camp, she might as well do something constructive than sit around worrying. Whether he liked it or not, Gendry couldn't push her out the door this time. And if got her with child during this unholy war, that suited her just fine.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	28. Chapter 28

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 28

Bran had never warged into a dragon before.

He'd bounced from animal to animal searching for the Night King and his commanders. When he saw the dragons hurl through the sky overhead through the eyes of a crow, Bran reached for the opportunity to gain a better vantage point. As he slipped into the mind of a Rhaegal, and he felt stronger and more empowered than he'd ever felt before.

Following Daenerys Targaryen and her mount Drogon, Bran soared to the opposite side of the wall, and breathed fire down on the army of the undead scaling the fractured cold face of the Wall. It was a delicate task, making sure fire reached its intended target instead of cutting through the mighty fortifications. The Wall was the only structure standing between the dead and the living.

Three passes of fire to the side of the wall, and Bran began laying into the sea of the undead waiting to climb up to the battlements. The other two dragons joined him, and together the wraiths were being consumed by the heat and scourge of the flames.

Flying up back into the sky, Bran saw the Night King from a distance with six of his commanders, watching impassively at the slaughter.

'I wonder,' Bran thought, and without reservation bolted swiftly from the other dragons to the fly over the Night King and his compatriots. With his keen eyesight, the king of the dead didn't look particularly troubled by the dragon ruling the skies above him, but he did pull his hands upward quickly to conjure a sudden gale of cold wind to disrupt the dragon's place in the sky.

Using Rhaegal's strength and command of fire, Bran rained a barrage of flame down on the small party. Three of the commanders melted under the fiery onslaught. The others moved away, dispersing to a safe distance. The Night King remained unmoved. On the next pass, Bran could see that while the fire could destroy a commander, it had no effect on the Night King whatsoever.

Regaining his position in the sky, Bran saw the undead making a third rush up the wall. Abandoning the Night King and the remaining commanders, Bran launched the dragon into another aerial assault on the undead. The onslaught lasted for hours. Together with the soldiers on the wall and the dragons, the undead army was called back by their commander, this time under the cover of a sudden darkness.

In the darkness, there was danger, as Bran looked up through the eyes of his dragon to see over a hundred wraiths leap in unison from their upward position on the wall down on the back of the white dragon Viserion.

With no rider and no real training, the creature bucked and screamed frantically in the air as the wraiths attacked with their ruthless swords.

The queen and her army of the living could not afford to lose a single dragon.

Even through the darkness, Bran could see his brother Jon signaling archers to launch a volley of arrows at the wraiths pinning Viserion down. Through the yells and clash of war, Bran screamed his presence above the battlements and circled twice around the King in the North. The men atop of the wall scurried away as the dragon touched down knocking down more than a few of the guard rails and fortifications.

Bran sat in place quietly for a moment, allowing the men to approach his position. It was Jon who stood out from the rest, motioning the rest of the solders back and walking toward Rhaegal in a calm manner. The king looked tired, a full night and day without rest, his cloak stripped in several places, his body bloodied from his own wounds and grayed from the decay of the undead. Jon moved closer, his hand in the calming position he'd used when the Stark children trained their direwolves so many years ago.

"Steady," Jon said peaceably. "Steady on, boy."

Bran turned his head and snorted his impatience. This had the effect he'd desperately wanted, when Jon's eyebrows shot up and he blinked.

"Bran?" Jon asked disbelievingly. His countenance was one of shock and awe.

The snort shot up again, as Bran extended the dragon's wing. The message was clear. Bran could see the other men watch in amazement as the King in the North climbed up the side of the dragon and took a place on his back. Then they were flying through the darkening air and toward the spot where the Viserion was frantically trying to shake off his attackers. The dragon was bucking and shacking in midair, as the undead sliced at coordinated points near the wings and head. Viserion had managed to shake more than a few of his attackers off, but he was flying out of control and out toward the icy wilderness far from the Wall. Bran followed the smaller dragon, flying faster to try to help him when one of the wraiths found a soft spot in the dragon's neck. Viserion gave a mighty heaving shriek, and headed hard toward the ground. The white dragon landed with a mighty thump in the snow near the woods, and the remaining wraiths were thrown from the creature's body at last.

Bran brought his own dragon down as well nearby, and as soon as Rhaegal had landed, Jon was sliding down the leathery side of his mount. Weapon in hand, he ran in the direction of the remaining wraiths, ending two of them with one slash of his broadsword. Bran swooped and breathed fire on another three wraiths. In the darkness and focus of battle, Jon didn't see a cloaked figure emerge from the forest on his mount, and begin hacking at the undead soldiers as well. The cries of the wounded dragon and its huge body blocked Jon's view of the mysterious figure, and it wasn't until the final wraith was shattered that Jon turned with his sword extended, only to have his lunge blocked by a sword and a face he recognized instantly.

Uncle Benjen, his face pitted with dark spots of decay and eyes almost unworldly in their weariness, brought Jon's guard down instantly.

"Uncle?" Jon said softly, his sword was still in hand but his body was still ready for a fight.

"Nephew," Uncle Benjen said, his voice crackling with the cold of winter.

A decade ago, the two of them would have embraced without prompting, the air crackling with happiness and comradery. The warmth of life from one of the older man was gone, and the other was nearly tapped from a night and a day of battle. There was distrust on the part of the living man, and a calm acceptance from the half-dead ranger.

"How did you…" Jon began.

"Bran sent for me some time ago, told me to stay close by." Benjen said monotone. "He didn't say anything about dragons."

It wasn't a joke as much as a statement of fact, and from his uncle's cold expression, Bran could see Jon didn't take it with much humor. When it was obvious there was no danger, Jon approached their uncle tentatively then all at once, and embraced him as he would have long ago. When they parted, the strain on Benjen's face was transparent.

"You're a dragon rider now," Benjen stated softly. There was a questioning lilt to his words. An emotion thought of but unable to be born.

His brother nodded woodenly. "Aye. Did you know about my parents?" Jon asked. There was a need aching in his voice.

The eldest Stark responded, his voice as hollow as the wind. "I suspected you were Lyanna and Rhaegar's son when my brother brought you home to Winterfell. I knew Ned would never forgo his honor to lay with another woman, but he would do anything to keep a promise to safeguard our sister's son. I saw the conflict and pain in his eyes when I held you for the first time, and I didn't have to ask. You were Lyanna's boy, and that's all that mattered."

"Why didn't someone tell me?" Jon asked, a rush of anguish in his voice. "I spent years wondering if my mother was alive and if she knew where I was. I thought about her almost every day."

"Your father's identity was a death sentence for you," Benjen's voice rattled. "I held my tongue. It was Ned's place to tell you, as he was the one to bring you home. I hoped he would have told you before you joined the Night's Watch, but I think he was hoping your vows would give you some protection from the king."

"You tried to put me off from joining," Jon reminisced. Bran could see the way his body was heaving from exhaustion and the jolt of seeing their uncle again.

"Didn't work," Benjen supplied tactfully.

"Didn't matter," Jon said darkly. "I did my best by the Watch, and my brothers killed me anyway. Stuck me with knives and called me a traitor."

"You died?" Benjen asked coldly. His eyes searched the younger man's frame for injuries or the stain of the undead.

Jon nodded. "A priestess for the Lord of Light brought me back. I'm free of my vows." It seemed like so much to say and not enough time to speak.

The recognition to their last conversation came to light in their uncle's eye. "You're married, then?" Benjen's impassive face flashed with a ghost of a grin.

"Aye. Sansa." The words rushed out of Jon's mouth in a torrent. "We have a son, born just over two weeks ago. We named him Robb."

Their uncle's words reflected no emotion. "Robb Targaryen?"

"Robb Stark," Jon corrected with a small smile. "He has my wife's name. There should always be a Stark in Winterfell." His uncle's face looked pained, knowing how the world had marched on without him.

Viserion cried out again in pain, the plaintive cries disrupting the conversation between the two men. Bran snorted and growled out impatience. The undead were coming, he could see them in the distance.

"You should go," Uncle Benjen motioned to the dragons. "We've tarried too long. It's dark and the army of the dead is never far away."

Seething his sword, Jon moved closer to Rhaegal, meeting the dragon in the eye. "Bran, can you warg into Viserion? He needs a rider to lead him back to camp." The dragon snorted, and Rhaegal's demeanor changed from calm acceptance to an altogether wilder creature.

His uncle looked nonplussed at the idea. "You need to get back as well. There's nothing but death between here at the Wall."

"We don't have a choice," Jon stated flatly while turning to face his uncle. "Come with me." There was something plaintive in his voice which harkened back to his younger years. The voice of the out-of-place teenager who was desperate to keep his favorite uncle close to his side.

"You know I can't." Benjen said starkly, his voice reverberating through the darkening skies. "I've a mind to keep fighting while I can. Now go."

Benjen kept watch while Jon approached an agitated Rhaegal, holding his hands out to the dragon in a calming demeanor. Jon's few experiences with Daenerys' dragons had been limited. He'd never seen them alone or tried to coax one to his side. What he had remembered was how Daenerys approached them confidently, speaking to them in an affectionate tone. She'd introduced them to Jon many months ago, and while he'd seen them several times since, Jon had been content to give each creature a respectful distance. This first attempt to truly ride a dragon would be a trial by fire, so to speak.

"Rhaegal," Jon approached the dragon in a slow and soothing manner. Part of his mind reached out in the same way he'd connected with Ghost. Some sort of thread and bond of Targaryen to dragon long slumbering in his blood. The dragon spread its wings in a show of green and bronze, its screeches filling the air.

"Rhaegal," Jon prompted again, close enough the look the dragon in the eye. "We must return to your mother. Viserion will follow us if we fly together."

The logic wasn't lost on the dragon, whom after sniffing Jon several times up close and sensing no fear in the man, lowered one enormous wing. The invitation extended, Jon climbed up the leathery body, and settled onto the creature's back.

Jon looked, and saw Uncle Benjen's undead mount emerged from his standing place in the woods. The half-dead ranger climbed aboard his steed. No words were said. Uncle Benjen raised his hand in a solemn farewell, as Jon commanded Rhaegal to take to the sky. The dragon walked then leapt into the air, using its wings to push upward above the trees. Jon turned to see Viserion, calmly limping but able to fly follow suit. It seemed like the longest ride back to camp, the reality of dragon flight finally make its way to Jon's thoughts. No one alive in Westeros, apart from his aunt, could ride a dragon. The Targaryen tradition of dragon riding was alive once more. It wasn't altogether different from riding a horse, but the mechanical gait of a dragon in flight was something Jon wasn't necessarily familiar with.

The world was now completely dark, and the dragons flew slowly back to the queen's army encampment. The undead were being held at bay again with the use of potted green fires. All Jon could see were the torches and silhouette of the Wall against the ground below. The faint sliver of moonlight providing a bone-like completion to the seven hundred foot fortification.

The small fires and tents from the camp came into view, and Jon gave Rhaegal the freedom to land where he pleased, which coincided appropriately with the feeding area designated for the dragons outside of camp. Drogon was already on the ground, the growls and screeches of the largest dragon echoing through the night sky. Rhaegal touched down first, and Jon waited for Viserion to land before giving his own mount a friendly pat on the side.

"Well done, Rhaegal." Jon said, relief filling his body and his voice. "Let's see to your brother."

Sliding down and off Rhaegal's wing, Jon began walking to Viserion, who had landed a short distance away from his brothers. Jon stood still for a moment in front of the green and bronze dragon who had helped defend his people earlier in the day. "Thank you," Jon said earnestly, looking the dragon in the eye. He didn't try to touch the dragon's head, but rather stood still to allow Rhaegal a chance to snort and sniff his body again. It was a behavior he'd seen in Ghost when they were first getting to know each other. It seemed natural a dragon may want to do the same.

The unsullied guards nearby must have alerted Queen Daenerys during the fly over, as she and Missandei led a group of maesters toward the newly arrived dragons. Jon walked over to speak with his aunt, whose face was knitted with care and barely concealed concern. She didn't yell for him, as he expected, but rather waited until they were close to open her arms and embrace him. It was the first time they'd come together in such a way, setting aside some of their schooled formality to greet each other as true family.

"How did you do it?" She sad, marveling at seeing two of her dragons and her nephew safely arrive together. "You've never ridden a dragon before."

"Can't take all the credit," Jon said with a tired grin. "Bran warged Rhaegal and then the other one. Viserion is injured. Bran'll probably keep him complacent while you see to his wounds. Is Drogon all right?"

"No issues there." Daenerys replied. "What's wrong with Viserion?"

"Slashes to the neck and wing from what I can tell," Jon supplied, the adrenaline of battle was leaving him tired and weary. The conversation with Uncle Benjen in the forest had been just as jarring emotionally. "Go see to him, he needs you," Jon gestured to the dragon who was still laying calmly for the maesters to begin their work. The maesters were in no rush to approach a dragon without the queen to lead them.

Daenerys nodded, her demeanor changing to one of command for the task of caring for the downed dragon. "You need to rest," she said gently. "Please, Jon. You've commanded the wall and risked much today. I want you well and by my side come tomorrow."

Jon nodded, saying nothing as they parted. The busy activity of the men was still thrumming through the camp, with men coming down from the wall and new soldiers taking their place. As he walked to his tent, Jon felt every strained muscle and ache in his hand. He stoically kept pace, greeting the men as he passed by. The fact that rode off and arrived back on a dragon was probably spinning wildly through the ranks, and it showed on the faces of the soldiers who had seen it for themselves, or had picked up the details second and third hand.

The King in the North. A dragon rider like the stories of old.

Which left Jon wondering, what Targaryen was left in the world to ride the third one?

XxX

 _They'd been distant from each other all day._

 _When they left the great hall during the wedding feast, Jon had looked at her with a combination of nervousness and the demeanor of a man intent on soothing a wounded animal._

 _Sansa Stark was neither helpless nor broken, but the soothing part, that was something her heart could reach out and hold onto. The act between a husband and wife in the marriage bed had never been a pleasing one for her. For the second time in her short life, her first physical exchange with her new husband was to be witnessed under watchful eyes. Jon had been insistent, keeping the witness out of the room for nearly an hour to undress her himself, taking his time ensuring she was comfortable in their bed, and while still clothed, kissing and lavishing the area between her legs which had only ever experienced pain._

 _It had been amazing and eye opening, and she'd cried nearly the whole time. Through it all, she'd been vocal in her pleasure, but kept her tears quiet until her husband's mouth had brought her to a shuttering peak. Then the sobs came, both in relief and revelation. Jon had looked stricken, not sure how to comfort her through her tears. She'd opened her arms to him, letting him hold her while she released all the emotions that had been pent up inside for too long. Jon could have left her on the bed, called in the witnesses and performed the deed at hand, as was his right. Instead, he sat next to her, held close, and helped sooth all the old hurts that rattled like ghosts in her mind. She'd been naked and vulnerable, while her husband had been fully clothed, honorable, and ready to call the whole marriage off on account of her tears._

 _She'd fallen in love with him a little that night, Sansa realized later._

 _Instead, Sansa had composed herself, asked him to summon their witnesses, and welcomed her husband into a conjugal embrace. Looking back, he'd been the one nearly faltering to perform if it hadn't been for her soft kisses and words of reassurance. Their first bedding had taken place under a thin sheet with three onlookers. It had been short, but so much better than anything she had ever expected. The witnesses left when the deed was done, and Jon, still slightly vexed by the presence of an audience, left their bed to don his shirt and wash his face in a basin nearby._

" _I'm alright, Jon," Sansa had assured him from under the covers, watching her husband pace the floor near the glass window. "Come back to bed."_

" _I hurt you," Jon said shortly, the guilt making his eyes go dark. His gaze turned his discarded clothing._

" _Ramsey hurt me," Sansa replied. "That's all he ever did. But you haven't. You have never have hurt me, especially not tonight."_

" _Then why were you cryin'?" Jon's voice had been harsh with recrimination, most likely for whatever sins he was tallying up in his mind. "I didn't think you were hurt until the end when you were sobbin'. Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?"_

" _You did nothing wrong. I felt relief first, and then…" She had problems producing words. "It was overwhelming, how you pleased me. Something I'd never felt before and never knew could happen. I didn't know what to think. How to feel." her voice was nearly cracking again. "You didn't take from me, you didn't force me. Tyrion may have sheltered me, and Ramsey took pleasure in raping me, but you put me first. I've never had a man put me ahead of himself. Not like this. Not with my body, Jon. Not with what's left of me."_

 _She hadn't wanted him to look at her with sadness or guilt, but from the expression on his face she knew he was feeling a mixture of both. His body was tense, ready to spring into action to fix what needed mending. If Ramsey Bolton hadn't been in lodged in the bellies of his dead dogs, Sansa was sure Jon would ask the Red Priestess to resurrect the bastard time and time again just to repair whatever cracked pieces of her heart. She didn't need brute strength and a sword to save her. What she needed was something else, and she'd found a telling of it earlier in the evening when he'd cared for her with his own two hands._

" _Please hold me, Jon," She'd said thickly. "Come to bed." Maybe it was the plaintive sound of her voice which had moved him, or his honor which compelled him to join her under the covers. What she remembered was how her fingers had removed the shirt over his head, and the look of guarded calm on his face when he took her into his arms. She fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat under her ear._

 _Before the sun rose in the morning, she'd been the one to initiate the first intimacies, kissing him slowly awake as they lay face to face on their sides in the purple grey darkness. She let her hand explore the warmth of his neck and shoulders, then his chest and torso. He'd seemed surprised when she kissed him slowly on the throat and nuzzled her nose under his chin. She'd felt awe and wonder as his hands explored her gently and slowly, thumbs tracing the curve of her breasts before his mouth descended on the dark skin of her nipple._

 _She'd guided her leg over his hip, and as light poured into their room, he pleasured her again with tender touches to the sensitive peak between her legs. It hadn't been enough for her, as she whispered what she needed in his ear, and he'd obliged her by joining his length inside her sheath. It was a slow dance of heat, and comfort and intimacy. He explored her center again and adjusted their angle to bring her to cumulation before spilling his seed deep inside her womb._

 _They had stayed joined for some time, Sansa finding relief in her husband's closeness. She'd buried her face in the skin of his neck and let tears flow quietly again. Here was the peace she'd wanted. The feeling of security she'd desperately needed. How she'd found it in the most unlikely of places was a mystery to her. When she'd recovered, she'd kissed the concern from Jon's furrowed brow and told him outright, "You make me feel safe." His response had been one of fierce tenderness followed by a close embrace._

They'd conceived their son that night or the next, in the same chain of gentle lovemaking that lived on in her memory.

Now in her dreams, he rolled her onto her back, lavishing attention on her navel before working his way down again to her knees and inner thighs. He looked at her like a man starving for weeks with a hunger she alone could satisfy. She was bolder in her dreams as well, taking charge to explore his body to her content. There were wicked thoughts as well, ideas she'd picked up from whispers of ladies in the southern court, about straddling his manhood and pleasuring herself while he suckled at her breasts.

In the haze of sleep, she could see his mouth tracing the dark peaks of her nipples, and feeling the throbbing of heat of anticipation for their joining as it sent shivers through her body. No one in her adult life, she thought, had ever made her feel like this. So cherished. So loved.

When she woke to her son's cries, Sansa could still feel Jon's strong arms and tender ministrations work their way through her body. With each message and letter she received, she could feel her heart falling deeper in sync with her husband. Robb's solemn little face nuzzled her breast seeking nourishment, and while he nursed, Sansa allowed herself to daydream of her husband's return. These were quiet moments in the morning before the household staff was up and about lighting fires and summoning her to break her fast.

Robb finished nursing, and as she fastened her robe and hoisted her son's head to one shoulder to pat his back, a knock sounded from the door.

"Yes?" Sansa asked, rising from the bed.

"A visitor for you, m'lady," one of the serving girls said shakily. "A man calling himself Sandor Clegane."

The identity of the guest left Sansa momentarily speechless. Shaking herself she summoned the serving girl inside.

"Sandor Clegane?" Sansa asked carefully. "That's what he told you?"

"Yes, m'lady," the servant nodded quickly.

"What does he look like?"

The words came quickly from the girl's lips. "Tall with dark hair. Kind of shaggy. And he has scars on the side of his face. Rode in late last night and the new stewardess offered him a place on account of you resting and all."

Sansa nodded. The southerners may forgo the rules of hospitality, but her house would never forget their obligations to travelers during the winter. Besides, her family owed Sandor Clegane a debt for saving her own life and protecting Arya before and after the horrors of the Red Wedding. "Please help me get dressed," she asked, placing Robb back in his cradle and selecting a gown to wear.

"He's in the great hall eating everything that's not nailed down," the serving girl said, her voice sounded appalled at the amount of food being consumed by their guest.

Given that her meals were simple ones these days, Sansa gave the girl a reassuring smile. "He can have my pottage for a week and it wouldn't begin to repay his service to House Stark. Please ask cook to make an apple pie and a fowl for dinner. Tonight, Sandor Clegane will have as much meat and mead as he pleases."

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	29. Chapter 29

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Big reading warning for this chapter. Intense stuff. Look away or wait for the next chapter if you're easily offended.**

XxX

Chapter 29

The three newborn dragons cocked their little heads to the side in unison, watching their mother intently as she readied herself for the day. Their beady little eyes gazed at her with a mixture of love and admiration. They ate from her hand and settled into the furs of her cloaks for warmth. For all the challenges of raising her first three dragons amongst starvation, wartime, and betrayal, Daenerys Targaryen found herself experiencing some of the same difficulties with these new arrivals.

This time, it wasn't the glaring sun and desert which would kill her children, it would be the freezing winds and snow which would snuff the life from their tiny bodies.

Unlike the first three brood, her newest hatchlings were all female. She had named the largest Rhaella, in honor of her departed mother. The smaller two were named Dreamfyre and Aelinor. If all went well, they would grow up and mate with the oldest three dragons, ensuring the line of dragons would continue in Westeros.

For now, the three hatchlings were content to devour the cooked bits of meat she fed them, squeak and chirp their greetings when visitors arrived to the tent, and perch atop her body while council was held. It had been too cold to introduce them to the older dragons, but in the near future, those introductions would need to be meted out.

Daenerys was in no rush to see these little ones grow up so quickly.

Her nephew Jaehaerys had found a moment to pay a visit to the young dragons. The three hatchlings had sniffed his hands and arms, chirping their approval as he fed them cooked meat and stroked their long necks with his finger. For all their immense significance, Daenerys could see the dragons would never unseat the king's the affection for little Robb Stark. Jaehaerys was devoted to his wife and child unconditionally.

She envied her nephew for his son, a healthy baby who was now two months old. From Lady Arya's description, the babe was as handsome and dark as his father, a Stark through and through. Jaehaerys hid his longing for his family in check, focusing his efforts on picking off the undead army to the point where the army could ride out and take out what was left of the Night King's legions once and for all.

A raven had managed to survive the weather delivering news that the Lady of Winterfell and her son were well, and had taken a sworn sword by the name of Sandor Clegane to protect the young lordling. Lady Arya, with her cropped hair, leather armor, and shrewd yet fierce personality vouched for Clegane. Jaehaerys hadn't seemed particularly enthused with the idea, but his cousin had been safe and protected in the knight's keeping for several months after Lady Catlyn Stark and her son King Robb had been murdered at the Twins. Lady Arya's journey had been far from comfortable, but the man had kept her alive through several trials.

The smaller scroll, enclosed in the first, was for the king's eyes only. Daenerys had seen her nephew read the note, tuck it into his chest pocket, and carry it with him wherever he went. He seemed to be tucking his little family close to his heart, keeping them nearby in the only way possible. The previous evening, he'd confided that he wished he'd had time to court his wife before they were wed. Their marriage had been rushed affair, and over time he'd grown to love her from afar. Daenerys thought it was so tragic to see her nephew, a man who had come of age deprived of a mother's love would seek to win the affections of a woman he'd already married.

Daenerys was sympathetic to his plight. After all, she'd been the one to change the relations between herself and Khal Drogo by learning to be brave, to voice her needs, and recognize the strength of their marriage partnership. She hadn't loved her husband at first, but it had grown over time. Now Jaehaerys was in a similar predicament.

"My wife has endured so much. I don't know how to make her happy," He said simply, exhaustion making the rough scratch of his accent darker. He sat before the brazier with a little dragon perched on his shoulder, feeding it little bits of cooked meat when it chirped happily at him.

"You get what you put into a marriage." Daenerys countered, stroking the two other dragons as they perched on her arm and shoulder. "If you take the time to tell her what you need, ask her what she wants, and follow through on her requests, she will love you. Drogo and I were as different as could be, but he listened and honored me. It was slow at first, and he and our son live in my heart every day. He still is the moon of my life, and I will love no other."

"This is different. She was raised to be a high born lady. I was never meant to have her," Jon said his words cloaked in wistfulness. "I grew up a bastard, unable to inherit land or a title. I wasn't meant to have a wife or a babe of my own."

 _I wasn't good enough then. I'm not good enough now._

Daenerys heard echoes of the unspoken words plainly. For a man of such heart and honor, it cut her to see him struggle with his doubts when he approached everything else so courageously. The constant betrayals and abuse Daenerys had suffered at the hands of her brother Viserys had cut her deeply years ago. She'd shed the pain of her past completely when her older sibling had been crowned in a torrent of liquid gold. His death had been a relief to the point she hardly thought of him anymore. But Jaehaerys was different. He carried his emotions closely and felt the pain of his past deeply. Where he had a generous and forgiving nature the family members who had wronged him, he could just as equally freeze out and pass sentence on men who had betrayed him with a swift swing of a sword.

Jaehaerys was a mesh of ice and fire embodied in a handsome exterior; devoted, honorable, and passionate. Sansa Stark was the most fortunate of women to have such a husband. Not all women could boast the same.

"Your Grace," Missandei greeted as she entered the tent. The presence of her devoted handmaiden was always a welcome one. Draped in furs and a leather dress, Missandei was not fond of the cold, and would often wear her many layers even while seated before a fire.

"Missandei," Daenerys smiled kindly. "I gather we're still trapped here."

The handmaiden nodded. "Yes. On our way here, Lord Tyrion and I were summoned to the bedside of Brandon Stark by Meera Reed. Lord Stark had a vision and was insistent with speaking to Lord Tyrion personally. I was bade to invite you as well."

The idea of being summoned by a crippled young man should have irked, her, but Brandon Stark was the Three Eyed Raven, his invitations could not be refused. Bran wasn't a king, and he didn't wield his power for political gain. Instead, he seemed to cultivate a position outside the traditional social structure. No maester, septon, red priestess, or noble could ignore his abilities. Being unique, nobles and slaves alike would venture forth when summoned by Three Eyed Raven and sit before him respectfully.

Leaving the little dragons to one of their trusted minders, Daenerys and her handmaid ventured through the snowy camp under armed guard, their short leather dresses repelling the ice and snow, and their cloaks providing some comfort from a sudden gale wind. With her nephew conferring with the Night's Watch, Daenerys was greeted by Meera Reed, who was steadily assembling more dragon glass arrows on the ground before the fire.

"They've been in a vision," Meera said quietly. "Not sure what they've seen. Bran didn't tell me. He wanted Lord Tyrion to see it first. I'm to let you in when they're finished so you can see it for yourself."

When she was allowed to join her Hand and Brandon Stark in the veiled space, Daenerys was momentarily aghast at the solemn and sad countenance of her advisor. His handsome face and sad eyes spoke of a tragedy she'd yet to see.

"Your Grace," Bran Stark greeted somberly. "I know the identity of the third dragon rider."

Daenerys sat gracefully next to her faithful advisor, and reached out to take Brandon Starks hand into her own.

XxX

The three of them were in a grand bedroom in King's Landing. The queen's chamber, no doubt. Daenerys recognized her mother from Bran's earlier visions. She was younger in this vision, her pregnant body heavy with child. Even now, Rhaella was lovely. She didn't look wane and broken as she had during Daenerys' own birth, but her mother looked tired and weary as she spoke with a beautiful honey haired woman sitting at her bedside.

"I'm so happy to see you, Joanna," the queen said through her fatigue. "I know how much you despise King's Landing."

Joanna Lannister. Tyrion's mother. She was willowy, with beautiful features and luminous skin. Her eyes were bright blue, and she wore the stately robes of red and gold which symbolized her house. Daenerys spared a glance at her Hand and saw his sad face drink in every curve of his mother's face. It was difficult to see one's mother, a woman you would never really know, brought to life right before your very eyes.

"What can I do to make you more comfortable?" The beautiful blonde woman said, her gentle voice soothing and brightening the darkening gloom in the room. Joanna Lannister tucked the queen deeper into the covers. "Tea, perhaps?" The bonds of friendship between the two women was clearly evident.

"I wish for you to sit with me for a while," Queen Rhaella said with a sigh. "I cannot attend the tourney. The king says all the excitement will startle the babe from my womb. He doesn't wish to lose another son. He imprisoned me for the last son I lost."

Aerys must have already been slipping into madness. Daenerys remembered the stories of all the miscarried and stillborn babies her mother had lost during her short life. She'd learned of her mother's imprisonment, rapes, and accusations of infidelity. Rhaella seemed to bear the burden of her husband's instability as gracefully as she could.

"May the mother have mercy and see this little one thrive," Joanna said sympathetically, squeezing the queen's hand and rising to kiss her on the cheek. "The gods willing, you'll see a line of children sitting next to you at the tourney for the king's twentieth year of his reign. Both of you will be pleased with such a blessing."

The hope of such a scene pricked at the corners of the queen's mouth, making her smile. She had such a lovely smile, Daenerys thought. Lovely and radiant. No one could say the queen wasn't beautiful and dutiful, just as she was expected to be.

The women chatted amiably for some time, and as the queen drifted off to sleep, Joanna Lannister bid her friend farewell with a gentle kiss to the brow. Daenerys, Bran, and Lord Tyrion followed Lady Lannister from the queen's chambers to the main hall of the royal apartments. Nothing seemed out of place, save the king's guard which were approaching her from a distance away. To her credit, the lady didn't falter when she saw them, but rather continued her journey back to the tower reserved for the King's Hand.

The king's guard intercepted her course, greeting her with a stern and unwavering message. "Lady Lannister. The king requests your presence in his chambers."

The lady stood confidently, a subtle ridge of steel holding her spine straight. Nothing out of place, but a graceful and poised stance demonstrating her highborn status. "If it would please the king, I would ask of him to send for me in the morning when my husband may be in attendance."

"It would please the king to see you directly," came the response from the King's Guard.

Lady Lannister gave a slight incline of her head and said nothing. Her hands clasped in front of her in a gesture of good breeding, the allowed herself to be led away from the direction of the Hand's chambers to those of the king.

Daenerys read the worried expression on Lord Tyrion's face as the lady and the king's guards walked swiftly away.

"Did Aerys hate your mother?" Daenerys asked Tyrion as they followed the lady and her escorts to the king's chamber.

Tyrion shook his head. "I heard Grand Maester Pycell say King Aerys insulted my mother at the tournament by asking her if nursing her children had ruined her breasts. My father went into a rage, and tried to resign as Hand of the King. The king refused the resignation, as I recall."

When they'd entered the king's chambers, Daenerys held her breath as she beheld the vision of her father, King Aerys. He wasn't handsome by any means, and the shabby state of his hair made him look more like a pauper than a Targaryen king. He had piercing violet eyes, which seemed to be the only redeeming feature he had. But Daenerys couldn't shake the feeling that this man was already straddling the cusp of madness, prone to fits of violence she'd only heard by second hand account.

"You were not at the tourney today, my lady," The king said tonelessly. "It would have pleased us greatly to have you presiding with us in the royal box."

"I was summoned to the queen's bedside, your grace." Joanna Lannister said humbly. "She felt my presence was needed to sooth the babe in her womb. He has been quite active of late." The lady stood gracefully composed, demure in stature with the calm demeanor of a woman experienced in court politics.

"Yet you missed the tourney," Aerys continued, standing lax but on guard like a dragon in its den. "Without you, no one could be called a queen of love and beauty."

"Surely, your grace. That is a title benefiting our beautiful queen. She is much beloved by all your people. Her condition only makes her more radiant."

"I don't remember you in such a condition yourself." The king said smoothly. "I can hardly tell the difference between radiance and merely sweat on a brow. Come, take a glass of wine with me." He began to pour his own glass of wine from a pitcher and several goblets on a nearby table.

"A generous offer, your grace. Wine at this time of the afternoon does not agree with me."

The refusal set off a slight tick in the king's eye. "Do you disobey your king, my lady?" The words were themselves not dangerous, but there was a tone in his voice which harkened otherwise.

The lady did not tremble at the sudden anger spilling in the room. Her voice was soothing, sweet, and very clear. "Please enjoy a glass for me, your grace. I do not wish for you to wait for refreshment on my behalf."

"It would not do to refuse me, Lady Lannister," the king filled another goblet with Arbor Red wine.

Joanna, beautiful and noble like a proud lioness, deflected each one of the king's barbs politely and respectfully, which only seemed to enrage the king further.

On the fifth refusal, the damn of the king's madness broke, it was with violent consequences. Aerys made a lunge at the beautiful woman, knocking the wine glasses onto their sides. Although she tried to avoid the sudden lunge, the king was unencumbered by heavy fabrics and skirts. One of his hands grasped the soft skin of her neck choking off her airflow. He laid a quick punch to her abdomen, knocking the remaining breath from her body. Hunched forward and vulnerable, Lady Joanna was hauled roughly to the nearest table, and within several minutes, the king had her trapped face down against the surface. In what could only be described as bloodlust and madness in his eyes, Aerys quickly tore at the lady's many dress layers, found her womanhood, and mounted her from behind.

Daenerys felt her heart seize in her chest. "I don't want to see this," Daenerys said angrily, horrified by the scene. Watching her father take an unwilling woman was an unholy act to see.

Tyrion looked stricken, and if Daenerys' heart hadn't already been broken, the look on her friend's face would have surely caused her chest to burst apart.

Brandon Stark watched on impassively. His eyes were full of sadness, and Daenerys had the feeling he'd seen this sliver of history play out before. "Listen to what he's saying to her," Bran said tonelessly.

Through the king's grunts and Lady Lannister's pained gasps, a steady stream of though dripped from Aerys' lips.

"I will take my first night rights from you every day while you're here," The king spat, pounding harder into his quarry. "You'll obey your king, lady. You'll obey or those brats of yours will wash up dead on the beach of Casterly Rock. Tywin's ilk will be smothered to death in their own beds. Do you hear me?"

The king ranted and raved, promising death to each of her children over and over if the lady didn't comply.

"Then your husband, I'll sever him bowel to throat, leave him in the sun and let you watch as the sun and the animals devour him alive." Spittle erupted from the king's mouth in foamy bursts. "I'll let him watch as I rut you bloody. He'll die knowing there's nothing he can do when I choke the life from you as he expires. You, your pompous husband, and your little brats all dead. Give me what is rightfully mine, my lady. Let me have you, and I will let them all live."

That was the moment Joanna Lannister broke. The king slowed his pace when she nodded stiffly and endured the king's assault. After several long minutes, Aerys' movements and words became erratic, and as he found his pleasure, he pulled Joanna's head back from the desk until she screamed in pain.

The lady fell back onto the desk when the king released her braid, her breath catching from fear and her eyes not yet breaking into tears. Aerys collapsed atop of his conquest, he stayed in place for some time, resting in a haze of lust and entitlement.

"I would plant a Blackfyre in you," Aerys said conversationally, his hips began thrusting again. "I want to see my seed take root in your womb and have you birth my son. A Blackfyre to aid the Prince who was Promised. A dragon raised by lions." The assault continued, and only when the pain became too great did the lady cry out. The king, his eyes wild and bright with cruelty, tempered his movements. "Can't have you too bruised. I need you intact and able to carry my progeny inside you. And we don't need your husband asking inconvenient questions, do we?"

"I don't want to see this anymore," Daenerys said loudly, her eyes pricking with tears. Bran nodded, and the scene changed. The room was one she had never seen before. A large airy chamber overlooking the sea.

"This is my mother's chamber at Casterly Rock," Lord Tyrion said with awe. His voice was distant, his turmoil from the previous vision still at the forefront of his mind.

Lady Joanna was laboring, the flurry of attendants and the soothing words of the maester flowing over the woman's pants and cries. The process of childbirth was not going well, as the worried faces of those in the room could attest. The lady was losing too much blood during the birth, and she occasionally broke down and cried out in agony.

Daenerys had witnessed a vision of her own birth almost a year ago when she first met Brandon Stark, and while her mother had been joyous after delivering a healthy daughter, the birthing bed of Joanna Lannister resembled a scene akin to battlefield triage as opposed to a happy occasion.

"Push again, my lady," the maester encouraged, his shaking hands coated in blood leaking from the lady's channel. "You must push or this child will never be born."

"She labored two days to bring me into the world," Lord Tyrion said blankly, witnessing the fear and concern in the faces of the attendants. "I was told she died having me."

Joanna Lannister seemed to pull the last bit of strength from her body, and pushed her child into being. The babe slid into the waiting hands of the maester amid a stream of fluid and a river of blood. The baby cried, a piteous sound, before it was whisked away by a waiting midwife.

The beautiful face of Joanna Lannister began to pale as more blood rushed from her body. While resting from the birth, she began to speak. Only the lady's maid beside her seemed to take her words with any seriousness.

"The babe?" Joanna said wearily.

"A boy," The maid replied, not responding how the babe appeared somewhat malformed.

"Send for my lord husband," the lady stated flatly. The maid hesitated, unwilling to leave her mistress in a time of great distress. "Go!" Joanna's forceful words had their desired effect. The maid rushed from the room in a flurry of skirts, and as she opened the door, Tywin Lannister entered the room in a rush.

Tywin Lannister's personality filled the chamber as soon as he walked into it. His handsome face possessed eyes intent on one person alone – his wife. Lord Lannister's tall form stalked through the room and directly to his wife's bedside. For all the horrors the man could inflict with his words and political intrigues, he stooped to Joanna Lannister's side and caressed her face lovingly. They gazed at each other for a moment, the concern and worry slipping through the cracks in Tywin's façade.

"I'm dying," Lady Lannister said softly. "I can feel it." Joanna's head lulled pack as her luminous skin continued to lose color.

"You will not die," her husband disagreed, his firm tone sounding like a command rather than a request. "You will live a long and healthy life and I will be by your side." Speaking from a place of confidence, it was clear the Lord of Casterly Rock didn't quite believe the words spilling form his lips.

"Name him Tyrion. It's a good name." Joanna said shakily, the color continuing to drain from her face with each word. Her arms reached out for Tywin and he swooped down to hold her close. He held her in his arms for several minutes, brushing the sweat from her brow and kissing her soundly. The unwieldy cries of the newborn agitated the lion lord.

"Shut him up!" Tywin roared to the midwife, who was furiously hushing the baby in her care. "And you!" He looked at the maester accusingly. "Redouble your efforts. Heal her!"

Even on the cusp of death, Joanna Lannister soothed her husband by using her thin cold hand to lead him back to her gaze. She brought his head down for a lingering kiss. That silenced Tywin to the point of stillness.

"The babe," Lady Joanna said. "It's not his fault, husband. Tell him it's not his fault. He is innocent. The gods may take me, but it is not his fault."

Those were the last words she spoke. The beautiful golden haired lady struggled for breath in her husband's arms for a long time as her life blood continued to flow onto the bed. The maester, calm and controlled, continued to address Joanna Lannister's wounds, but to no avail. She drew a final short gasp, then expired.

No one in the room made a sound. Tywin Lannister continued to wrap his arms around his wife, his hands grasping at her night shift and his face buried in her hair. The servants and the master turned to leave, giving their lord room to grieve. There were none left in the room save the ghosts of the past and the three living souls watching from a few feet away.

"My father took me out to the edge of the sea," Tyrion said without emotion. "That's what he told me. He carried me from the birthing room and held me out over the waves, intending for the water to take me. I always wondered what made him stay his hand. What possessed him to change his mind? He always hated me. Now I see there wasn't anything he would do for her, even let the product of her shame draw breath because she said I was innocent."

"Time to go," Brandon Stark said, and the scene before them disappeared.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	30. Chapter 30

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Big reading warning for this chapter. Intense stuff. Look away or wait for the next chapter if you're easily offended.**

XxX

Chapter 30

The wine pitcher on the table was empty.

Lord Varys lifted his gaze from the vessel to the half-drunk man brooding by the brazier fire. Lord Tyrion was far from drunk, and while he was noticeably occupied with imbibing the swirling liquid in his cup, the sadness and melancholy around him had already begun manifesting itself into the cold shadows of the tent.

Through all their adventures and trials together, Varys looked at Tyrion and felt and uncomfortable sensation of guilt. Guilt that the suspicion he'd had knowledge of for many years had been shared with his friend in one way or another. There was a thin line between tiny whispers and actually knowing cold hard fact, but that distinction wasn't helping the situation at all. Guilt was an emotion Varys thought he had shed long ago, but now he felt a sting on his on his conscience which could only be removed after speaking to the Queen's Hand.

"Hello old friend," Varys shuffled to the chair near Lord Tyrion.

"I suppose there's no point asking how you found me." The reply was calm, and clear, giving no indication of the emotional turmoil bubbling up inside the smaller man.

Varys pressed onward, resigned that his words may not be the healing balm Lord Tyrion needed. "The Mother of Dragons sent for me. She was worried for you."

"I wouldn't know why she did," Tyrion replied. "She excused me from her service for the night. I was hoping for a little peace and quiet for a few hours."

"To drink yourself to death?" Varys asked. "That worked our marvelously before, from what I recall."

Tyrion ignored the observation. "When you've seen your mother in a vision, and idiotically was hoping it would be something vaguely good, the only thing left to do when it all goes monstrously wrong is drink to forget."

"But there's no forgetting what you've seen, is there?"

Tyrion imbibed a deep drought from his glass, and hung his head. "What do you want, Varys?"

"The queen told me you'd seen a vision of your mother and King Aerys. She didn't elaborate, nor did she need to. She said you needed some time, and maybe a friend to help you make sense of it."

"Did you know about my mother? What the king did to her?"

It was a question, asked in a hushed tone from a man who was looking for one more reason to slip into melancholy. Varys knew the truthful answer would be a friendship breaking moment. The honest half-truth would be akin to the stench of a dead body within a moment. It was best to let the vision speak for itself.

"There were whispers of course. You grew up hearing them yourself. There were insinuations your mother was paramour to the king before she was wed. I never believed them. Lord Tywin was too proud. He would never take another man's leavings. It is true that King Aerys said he wanted his first night rights from your mother when she married Lord Tywin. A jape to be sure, but one that everyone was wary of. The king was accustomed to having what he wanted."

"Did you know he raped her?" Tyrion said, sadness and anger nipping at each word. "During a tourney in King's Landing?"

"My lord-"

"DID YOU KNOW?" Tyrion yelled, his face mad with grief. "You and your little birds were close to the Mad King when he was on the throne. One of them must have said something!"

"That was before my time, my lord. Well before King Aerys sent for me. I was still in Pentos for nearly a year after your birth."

"For the man who could motivate the Targaryen patriarch to attend the Tourney of Harrenhal when no one had seen him in decades, I find it hard to believe you wouldn't know about the man's sexual conquests."

"The king had many conquests before I came into his service. By the time I was appointed to the small council, he had made a walk of atonement and a vow to remain true to his marriage vows. My little birds verified his fidelity. He was prone to violence in the bedroom, for which his wife would have preferred the king sate his appetites with a bevy of other women." Verys went silent, looking at his friend intently. The sadness and anger were still coursing through his eyes, and there was a fire there. Verys had seen it enough when the Mad King was still alive to recognize the look.

"He raped my mother," Tyrion said slowly, grief painting his words. "She was beautiful, and poised, and from what I saw, so very confident. Everything that makes up the best parts of House Lannister. I can understand now why my sister hated me. To see those lovely eyes and face, her gentle voice. No mother could ever be her equal. She would have been the peacemaker, the good influence our family needed. But she died. My mother died because of what the king did to her. What I did to her."

"You aren't to blame for your mother's death." Verys countered.

"She told my father…well, he wouldn't be my father now, would he? She told Lord Tywin I was innocent. Can you believe it? She died giving birth to me, after being raped by the king, and she told her husband I was innocent. She saved my life."

"And lost hers in the process. You know, Queen Rhaella miscarried several pregnancies, and when she did manage to deliver a child they were often stillborn or died shortly afterward."

"What of them?" Tyrion spat.

"The later stillbirths, the ones conceived before you were born, they were considered misshapen. The maester who attended the queen said several of them were dwarf like in appearance. A common hereditary trait for Targaryan inbreeding, from what I understand. But by giving birth to you, your mother was able to accomplish what Queen Rhaella could only do two times."

"What's that?"

"Give birth to a person who is a blessing to the kingdom of Westeros. The queen is your half-sister, and your nephew is the King in the North. The three of you will usher in a new age for the realm. A dragon in the north. A dragon in the south, and now, a dragon in the west."

"I don't want to think about politics now," The half man said, rising from his seat. He began looking around his tent for more wine. "I want to mourn my mother."

"As you should," Varys agreed. "But as you're looking to drink yourself to death, it makes me wonder what troubles you more? Discovering you're a bastard son of the Mad King, seeing your mother plead for your life, or finding out you're not the son of the man you shot to death in a privy?"

"Tywin hated me, and he tried to have me killed. I may have been despised by the man I thought was my father, but I was raised a Lannister. There was nothing he could do about that."

"You still are a Lannister. The best of the Lannisters, if you don't mind me saying. Your mother was a Lannister. You said it yourself, Joanna Lannister was the best of her house. And being the best mother in all of Westeros, she understood you would have the protection of her name and her house if she pleaded for your life. She wanted you to live, my friend. If she was the lady I'm beginning to think she was, she would have wanted to you live and make your own way in the world. Look where you are, and how you've risen up. She would be proud of you."

"I wouldn't go that far," Tyrion muttered, still not finding any wine.

"And yet you would repay her by sitting in a dark tent attempting to drink yourself into oblivion. It doesn't suit you, my friend. You were a drunken wreck the entire ride from Pentos to Meereen. If it hadn't been for Jorah Mormont kidnapping you into a forced state of soberness, you might not be where you are now."

"Freezing my balls off at the Wall while an undead army attempts to conquer Westeros? Yes, it's the one place everyone wants to be."

Verys ignored the jibe. "For a man who just got his family back, you're certainly not taking advantage of your blessings. Examine what you have. For the first time in your life, you have a sister who doesn't hate you, who instead respects and relies on you. And you have nephew, who in addition to not being an inbred psychopath, has overcame numerous trials to be named King in the North. Jaehaerys attained his throne through honor and courage. You like him, he likes you. You've always rubbed along together well enough. He speaks nothing but praises for you."

"I met him some years ago, before he came up here. Before most of his family was killed by my family. He thought I was kind. Poor boy didn't know the difference between kindness and sound advice."

"You should go and speak with your sister and nephew. Jaehaerys needs to know the truth of what you've seen. It makes the three of you stronger to stay together than for one of you to be driftlessly drinking in a tent alone."

The Spider's words seemed to hit their mark. Verys breathed an inner sigh of relief when Tyrion ceased his search for more wine. The smaller man stood, flexing his hands. It was an unconscious tick of how worried he was about the new dynamic of his family.

"Where is the queen?" Tyrion asked, reaching for his cloak.

"Waiting for a report from the King in the North. He sent a message to the queen not long ago. It seems he has some new information from the top of the Wall."

XxX

Arya watched Bran as he slept. Her baby brother, who had spent his days climbing walls, trees, and every part of Winterfell, was laying silent and still. Three days of visions and warging had taken their toll, and for now, he was resting in his cot, kept warm under several fur pelts and as well as a fire in the brazier. Meera Reed was probably asleep as well, having taken to her own bed several hours ago when her guard shift had ended.

When it was her turn to watch her brother at night, Arya knew her husband would be keeping busy at the forge, repairing weapons or helping to build parts for a new lift for the Wall. On the nights they didn't sleep together, they often worked themselves well into the small hours of the morning. The cold and the dark were easier to bear when they were sleeping together in their tent, or rather falling into an exhausted hazy heap after her coupling. Her moonblood had come two weeks ago, putting an end to some of the physical aspects of her marriage, With their dry spell over, her husband had been creative in his need to make up for lost time.

Earlier in the afternoon, she'd stopped by the forge to see him one last time before her shift. Using their conversation as an excuse to pull her into a dark area of the building, they shared a kiss which quickly turned amorous. Hands pulling clothing away, he'd gotten on his knees to pleasure her, and then took her up against the roughhewn wood of the building. She had loved the feeling of him, strong and hot, while he was finishing inside her. He'd covered her cries with his own mouth, drinking in the sound so the others in the forge couldn't hear them.

The sword on her hip and the fierceness of Gendry's face kept the watchful eyes of the apprentices focused on their work. There would be no tales told about Lord Baratheon and his She-Wolf wife stealing intimacies in the forge.

Meera Reed had been loath to leave Bran's side when Arya greeted her. Meera said she and Bran had talked and laughed for an hour before her brother fell asleep. They were friends, the Stark boy and the Crannogman girl. Clever, capable, and loyal, Meera was one of the few people Arya trusted with her brother's safety.

As Bran was sleeping and Jon was treating with the queen, there wasn't much to do but sharpen Needle and think. It was moments like this when Arya missed her direwolf the most. After being parted for so many years, Arya craved the warm presence and companionship Nymeria provided.

The stone scraped along the edge of the blade, Arya sinking into a stillness of mind where she could feel the cold air just outside the tent, hear the men walking by outside, and the crackling of the fire in the brazier. It was meditative, restful, and in that moment, she closed her eyes and when she opened them she could see her father sharpening Ice by the lake in the Godswood.

Eddard Stark was going through the same motions, a careful but mindful stroke of stone on steel. He came to the Godswood to think, to get himself back from passing sentence on the men who deserted their vows. Her father had a warm heart, guarded at times by the warfare which had plagued his early life. He only killed when there was a rightness to it, a justice being done. But Arya wondered if it took a little of his soul in return.

Eddard looked up from his blade, blinking for a moment, then smiling faintly. "There you are. I wondered when you'd find your way here."

Arya jumped, her face scrunched up with shock. Her father was dead. How had he seen her? How was he able to speak to her?

"He's not talking to you," Bran walked into her line of vision. "Look behind you."

Arya stared at the figure behind her. It was a younger Arya, her dress dirty and hair poking out of her braids. She couldn't have been more than six or so. Through the fog of memory, Arya vaguely recalled what she was seeing. But this was different. The colors, sounds, and smell of the godswood were fresh and clear. Her father's wonderful, kind face had lit up a bit just for her. This younger Arya had been her mother's and septa's exasperation. Her father saw her differently.

The younger Arya walked to Ned Stark slowly, her head not bent in contrition, but rather rueful frustration.

"You ran away from your lessons," Ned said gently. "You're too old to be running off like that."

"It was too nice outside today," The younger Arya protested. "There was too much to do."

"And what would that be?"

"Sword fighting with Bran," Arya responded quickly. "We were fighting the Night King and Queen at a battle at the Wall. We managed to kill the queen and were almost about to slay the Night King when Jon found us."

Ned Stark grinned slightly. Her father may not have been an expressive or demonstrative man, but Arya could reach out and feel his amusement.

"And you won the day, I take it."

"Yes. We vanquished the Night King with Jon's help. His reinforcements were just what we needed."

Her father chuckled, his rich voice filling the air. Gods how she missed him.

"And during this battle you managed to tear and stain your dress?"

"We were winning father!" The battle had been the most important part of her day. "It didn't matter what happened to my dress when we were battling the Night King. The kingdom was counting on us."

"For which all of Westeros will be duly grateful, I'm sure." Ned said carefully. "But lessons are important. Even the ones you don't like too much. There's time to play when lessons are done. Alright? Good. Now, let's get you home to your mother."

Ned sheathed his sword, and although Arya was considered too big to carry, her father picked her up anyway. Arya wrapped her arms around his neck and giggled when her father kissed her cheek. The giddy sounds of her little girl laughter made her father break out into a full smile. The happy sounds of the two of them progressing back to Winterfell faded, leaving the older Arya and Bran alone in the Godswood clearing.

"You see him like this all the time?" Arya said longingly, her eyes still fixated on her father's back.

"Sometimes he's young, sometimes he's older. It depends on where the visions take me." Bran waited a beat before he continued. "I saw him at the Sept of Baylor, how he saw you kneeling on the statue in the square and sent the Night's Watchman to save you. He died not knowing if you'd made it out of the city, but he had hope you would."

"So, you saw his execution."

Bran nodded. "That and more."

"Now that he's gone, I look back and think how much he loved all of us," Arya said slowly. "He confessed to a crime he didn't commit to save Sansa and me. To save our family."

"We saved ourselves," Bran replied. "Or rather, we learned to save ourselves. Everything he and mother did for us, the lessons, the encouragement, the press to be diligent in our studies. The older I am, the better I understand their actions. The decisions they made. In my dreams, I come here and I remember what it was like to have my family with me."

Arya hadn't thought much about Bran's journey and what it had had entailed. She knew Meera's brother Jojen Reed had died, as well as his direwolf Summer and their faithful servant Hodor.

So many had died so Brandon Stark could live.

"Meera's family now, or as good as." Arya pointed out.

Bran smiled sadly. "I wish that was so. If I was older, and could walk, I'd ask her to marry me, and spend the rest of my life with her at Greywater Watch."

"Not Winterfell?" Arya asked.

Bran shook his head. "It's not my place anymore. It belongs to Jon and Sansa. And as happy as we were, I can never go to before my fall. At that time, Winterfell was home. It's not the same place now. I don't know where home is anymore."

It was true, Winterfell was different. Most of the people who loved them, raised them, who worked the fields and cared for the keep were dead and gone. It was the people who made a home, just as much as the brick and mortar walls.

"You'll be going to Storm's End when this is over," Bran said carefully. "You, Gendry, and the baby."

Arya was confused. She'd had her moonblood, proof her body wasn't carrying a child. "What baby?" she asked.

Bran smiled mischievously. "The one you made earlier today with your husband. The moontea you thought you lost, it's on the ground in the stables. I recommend you leave it there and not drink it."

"Are you telling me this as my brother, or as the Three Eyed Raven?" Arya asked.

"Both." Bran responded, and with his words, Arya snapped back into consciousness.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	31. Chapter 31

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks to the reviewers for their feedback. I had quite a few things to accomplish this week IRL. Thanks for your patience. I have half of the next chapter written and should be posting it before the July 4** **th** **holiday.**

XxX

Chapter 31

It had been a startling revelation.

His mind working through a slight haze of alcohol, little sleep and an empty stomach, Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the Queen, watched the former bastard of Winterfell absorb news of the Three Eyed Raven's latest vision.

It was an intimate party comprised of the Queen, her Hand, and the King in the North. The three of them were seated around the small table in the queen's tent as they had so often done before. Instead of discussing military tactics, political arrangements, food supplies, and death tolls, they were treading on boggier ground. For all their work together during their initial political alliance, the three of them never had looked at each other as family. Allies, yes. The idea of family, with each of them experiencing different concepts of what it meant to be part of one, was something entirely different.

Jaehaerys Targaryen didn't look overly surprised when Tyrion himself and the queen shared news of their shared vision. It was possible the King in the North had grown so accustomed to sudden revelations of Targaryen parentage that he simply accepted the tidings without hesitation.

Tyrion had noticed Jon's face had grown wearier with each day spent atop the wall, the cold and the wind schooling his handsome features into unbreakable ice. He was no longer the angry and brooding boy Tyrion had met a decade ago. The men of the north and the south admired him. The wildlings, all of whom would never kneel to any one, respected the seven hells out of him. He stood like a beacon on the wall, encouraging and sustaining the soldiers through the long siege. In the quieter moments, he listened to the stories of the men, where they were from and the names of the people they were fighting for far from home.

Jon Snow had transformed into Jaehaerys Targaryen, and shed the bitter boy he had been to become the king he'd been born to be. Quite a change from the last two blood relation monarchs Tyrion had served in King's Landing.

"You're my uncle." Jon said shortly. It was a statement, not a question. The younger man's eyes looked at Tyrion with a glimmer of kindness and acceptance. "Never thought I'd get another one."

The remark had made the queen smile, a sad and beautiful smile that chiseled away at the cold and dark place around Tyrion's heart.

"Believe me when I say, your grace, it was as much a surprise to you as it was to me."

Jon looked thoughtful. "You don't need to use a title when it's just us, uncle."

"Jaehaerys, I'm not quite-"

"My family calls me Jon."

Tyrion nodded, understanding that for all the younger man had gained in his rise to the throne of the north, Jaehaerys still used the name given to him by Eddard Stark. It was the name he'd known all his life, and no Targaryen birthright could squash it.

"Jon," Tyrion tried out the name experimentally. "I'm not quite the uncle you'd want to have on your side. Despite my best efforts, my niece and both my nephews are dead. Making matters worse, both my siblings are dead. If reports are true, my brother strangled my sister to death with his own two hands to keep her from burning what was left of the Red Keep. I killed my mother during my birth, and killed the man I thought was my father whilst he was expelling his bowels in a privy. I'm the last candidate you want to count as a relation."

"We all have our shortcomings." Jon replied bluntly. It was his northern burr that made the observation feel like a statement rather than a joke. Knowing the king for as long as he had, Tyrion knew the northern king held flippancy aside during an earnest conversation. "I grew up angry for being a bastard. It made me impulsive to leave home before my time. I abandoned my family to prove myself here at the Wall. I wanted to prove I had honor when the rest of the world saw me as Lord Stark's shame. I should have stayed with Robb. I should have laid my sword at his feet and pledged my sword to him. Maybe he would have lived. I don't know."

"Brandon Stark is crippled, and nearly the rest of your family, Eddard, Catlyn and Robb Stark are dead because of House Lannister." Tyrion said bluntly.

"You had nothing to do with those deaths. Sansa told me so herself. Your fath- Lord Tywin kept you out of his affairs because he didn't value you. But I do. Sansa, Gendry, Tormund, Missandei, Grey Worm, Varys, they all do too. The queen, she values your council most of all."

"I do what I can with what I have." Tyrion sat back carefully in his chair. "It's all any of us can do in times like these. A bastard Targaryen dwarf. A dragon raised by lions." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then directed his gaze to Daenerys. "I understand, your grace, should you wish to-"

"Don't even speak it. I would not accept your registration."

"It was worth a try," Tyrion sighed. "I wonder what the other lords will say when they find out about this."

Jon looked to his aunt for support. "Nothing needs to change right now, not with the war on. The men have been too busy fighting to argue about something like this."

"Nevertheless, it feels a little too convenient that Brandon Stark would have a vision which could divide or unite us." Tyrion took another sip of his wine.

"The realm has always been stronger together than divided." Jon said bluntly. "Squabbling over titles and birthrights are for summer when death isn't breathing down our necks."

"I'm not one for prophesy or religion in general." Tyrion said philosophically. "I'm a cynic when it comes to the Red God, the Seven, and even the gods of the First Men. In my new bastard state, I have to say it's a powerful symbol to the men if there are three Targaryens to fulfill your brother's prophesy, your grace."

The queen nodded. "Rhaegar and the Mad King were obsessed with prophesy," Queen Daenerys said astutely. "My mother and father married because they were convinced the Azor Ahai would be born of their Targaryen bloodline. My brother said 'the dragon must have three heads' to win the war against the long night. Now there are three of us."

"Your brother believed that prophesy would be made flesh with his three children." Tyrion countered. He was still dubious of the idea. "Aegon and Rhaenys were the beginning of that idea. The Young Dragon ran off with Lyanna Stark because felt he needed another child to complete his vision. With respect, that decision brought the realm nothing but war and loss, not to mention the fact that an heir to the throne was all but delegitimized in the process. Now we're shown the last three Targaryens alive weren't raised together, and are different as can be. Some would call it coincidence or an ill omen. "

"I consider it advantageous," Daenerys proclaimed. "Three of us, from different parts of Westeros, with three different lives. Rhaegar and Aeryes saw the prophesy through a pinhole in time. What matters is that we're here together now. The three of us are united in the blood of our fathers. Houses from the north, the south, and the west are united together with us. Together we will win the day."

The immensity of having relations again was still baffling. Unexplored territory for a man who had been starved of so much affection from his closet kin. The possibilities now seemed endless. "And afterward?" Tyrion asked, his hand shaking slightly from the emotion running through his blood. "When this is over and we're looking around wondering what to do next? We can't pretend this revelation didn't happen. Not to ourselves and not to the people."

"You'll be Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West," Daenerys said shortly. "Although I would hope you would remain by my side as my Hand of the Queen."

Tyrion looked at her appraisingly.

"That's not enough?" The queen admonished slightly.

The half-man nodded. "If we can make a pact not to try to kill or emotionally maim each other going forward, there is something else I've always wanted."

"What is it?"

Tyrion looked longingly at the three dragon crates and their occupants settled close to the warmth of the fire. "A dragon. I've always wanted a dragon."

The Queen of Westeros and the King in the North both smiled knowingly in reply.

XxX

Winterfell stood grey and tall against the winds from the north. The snow and ice, which had always been in abundance, blanketed the landscape into a forbidding stretch of white. For the men and women walking the battlements each night, darkness seemed to strangle the stars in the sky just over the northern horizon. The people in the keep went about their duties, one eye on the sky and ears open to the sounds of the undead army coming south.

Sansa Stark stood tall and graceful in the face of such destruction. Her mind was focused on protecting the small community of people holding fast in the keep, as well as the influx of refugees from other areas of the north flooding Wintertown. The ice and cold of winter was in her blood, and her command of the land became more entrenched with each snowfall.

Through the petitions, the weekly visits amongst the townsfolk, her reputation and virtues began trickling like warm blood through the icy heart of the north. The people marveled at seeing little Robb during Sansa's weekly progress, the babe closeted warmly in a fur and fabric sling; which was common in the north. When they asked to see the little lordling, Sansa smiled kindly, pulled away the fabric, allowing the people to see the dark hair and Tully blue eyes of her son. Lady Catlyn Stark would have kept her children in their nursery with an able woman to care for them. Sansa preferred to keep her son close and visible to the people. They more they saw him, the more the good folk of the north would love him.

The Starks had stood as the highest house in the land for generations. Now the red-haired lady of Winterfell took her place as the Wardeness of the North and carried the balance of peace and justice through the land. Most of her duties and obligations lent to providing food and organizing supplies for the people, but it also meant providing emotional comfort to those who had lost nearly everything in the aftermath of the War of the Five Kings.

Winter had come. Two Starks were in Winterfell. She would see that all in her care survived.

Rising early in the morning, Sansa settled her son into the fabric sling at her chest and wrapped her precious bundle with a fur pelt before donning her thick cloak. Although the halls of Winterfell were warmed with the hot springs beneath the keep, the godswood held no such protections. Sansa spent a little time each day kneeling at the heart tree sending what support she could to her family defending the Wall.

She emerged from her room with Nymeria in tow to find Sandor Clegane standing faithfully at her door. The southern knight was a constant presence during the day, providing escort and protection during the waking hours while Arya's direwolf provided nocturnal oversight in the lord and lady's chambers.

Clegane had a habit of arriving early outside her chambers, the clink of his armor and his heavy footfalls proclaiming his arrival to his duties.

"To the godswood again, little bird?" Sandor mono toned. "You won't have any knees left by the time the snows recede."

Sansa's mouth twitched in a smile. Sandor Clegane had not yet shirked from his responsibilities to her house, but his pledge did not include silent obedience, which meant he voiced his thoughts to the point of insubordination. If she, her sister, and the errant knight hadn't had a shared history, his comments could be misconstrued as cruel and insufferable. Sansa gave Sandor the freedom to speak his mind, even if he tended to be uncouth more often than not.

"To the godswood," Sansa inclined her head, walking toward the entrance to the hall. She brought an arm under Robb to hold him close in her arms. "We can stop by the sept as well if you wish to pray to the Seven."

Clegane gave a non-committal shrug, and fell silent. Theirs was a quiet walk to the woods. The knight assisted the Lady of Winterfell into her customary spot, and walked a few feet away to allow her a measure of privacy.

Closing her eyes, all Sansa could hear was the stirring of the wind through the trees and Robb's little breaths emanating from under her cloak. Her son was napping, as he was often accustomed to doing after a morning feeding. It was the peace and quiet of this place which allowed her to focus on the faces of each of her loved ones so far away.

 _Old Gods, hear my prayer, guide and protect them all during this time of darkness. We have been apart for so long, scattered to the wind, and have lost so many in our family along the way. Let those I love and care for come home soon victorious, in a world where the undead will harm us no more._

Her mind drifted to other prayers, for her son's health and well-being, for the glass garden harvests which were helping to feed the families in Wintertown. Safety and security for the keep, and to lay aside the pain of the past for the promise of a better future.

She found the last request more difficult to ask for than all the others. Sansa could still hear whispers and feel the terrible pain of Ramsay Bolton's actions in the dark corners of her mind. She and her household staff may have burned the memory of the Bolton occupation of Winterfell, but some wounds, the ones she still felt marring the fabric of her skin, still lingered.

Ramsay Bolton was dead. His house was extinct and would never trouble another living soul again. Jon was alive. Proof her their marriage was nestled warmly against her breast. Robb had healed so many of the empty places of her heart, but so many other injuries remained. Sansa used her time at prayer to come to terms with her inner hurts and pain, reliving what she could to give peace to her mind. It wasn't forgiveness for Ramsay as much as it was choosing to shed mental shackles of his abuse. She was free. It was over. It was done.

Her will turned to iron clad assurance that she would never be put through those traumas again.

 _I have been injured and bruised, but not broken. I stood on the jagged edge and jumped to save myself. I am not what happened to me. I am more than anyone can imagine._

When her knees went numb, it was time to leave. Clegane could anticipate when she was ready to return to the keep, and assisted her in gaining her feet. In silence, they returned to Winterfell. Robb began to stir as she broke her fast and was fully awake when she began her duties.

Sansa had appointed a Stewardess to attend to duties in and around the keep. Medda, the daughter of the deceased steward from Deepwood Motte had left the safety of Barrowtown to offer her services. She had assisted her father with many of his duties in the Glover household, and had lost her parents, husband, and both sons when the Ironborn riders had sacked the keep. Medda's dark hair and eyes seemed much older than her thirty two name days. The discreet inquires sent to Barrowtown and Deepwood Motte had confirmed the woman's story. She had not revealed what had happened to herself personally during the Ironborn invasion, which would have raised some eyebrows any other time. Sansa was sensitive enough to recognize the woman had been brutalized in some way, and accepted Medda into service due to the extensive experience she held.

The woman had been quiet, efficient, quick to fix what needed to be repaired, and was creative in finding solutions what couldn't be easily mended. This morning, it was the need to find a miller to inhabit the newly repaired windmill not far from the keep. The list of candidates was short.

"A merchant's daughter from Karhold?" Sansa asked when the candidate was mentioned.

"Alyse," Medda nodded thoughtfully. "She has a boy with her, not her brother but as good as, or so she says. Thomas is his name. The boy worked in his uncle's mill near Last Hearth. She found him wandering around Karhold in a daze. The boy said his uncle sent him away to keep him from the wildlings. Alyse believes she and Thomas can operate the mill, provided a strong man is able to stop by to help from time to time."

"Strong men are in short supply," Sansa noted. "How soon do we need to start milling grain again?"

"The flour brought up by Lady Olenna's gardeners is running out. We have enough for another month. But there are more people trickling into Wintertown. All need bread and soup if they are to survive the weather."

Sansa nodded. It was a strange company. A female warden, a female steward and now a female miller. None of them had been groomed for their current duties and tasks. The culture of Westeros would have preferred them to be a queen, a wife, and an obedient daughter and little else. The North was different. It would be strong women who picked up the pieces when the men were gone or away.

"Tell her I accept her service on a trial basis," Sansa said diplomatically. "Should a miller arrive with more experience, we will find her another situation."

Medda smiled slightly. "I will send her and the children to the mill today to settle in. May I suggest your knight be the one to stop in to assist the miller with any heavy lifting she may require?"

It was an obvious choice. Clegane was the strongest man left in Winterfell. Sansa glanced at the impassive face of her sworn sword and kept her own amusement in check. "Should he have the time to assist her, I will send him out."

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed by with a handful of petitions, a careful review of inventory, luncheon. The quiet time of afternoon correspondence was interrupted when a serving girl announced a visitor had arrived.

Sansa bundled Robb into his sling and greeted her guest in the main hall. A blonde man, whom Sansa had never seen, stood wet and exhausted a respectful distance from her chair.

"This is Jorah Mormont, my lady," Medda greeted when she was seated.

"Ser Jorah Mormont?" Sansa said aloud, looking at the blonde man and the sword he carried by his side. "Your reputation proceeds you Ser. What brings you to Winterfell?"

The man bent his head in respect. His clothing looked too thin to be wearing for this time of year. His tanned face and neck were exposed to the flicker of the candle light.

"I am traveling north to serve Queen Daenerys," Jorah replied.

"That would be a bit difficult, I think." Sansa's gaze was steady and appraising of her guest. "There are reports heavy snow is blocking the camp nearly ten miles away. No riders have been able to approach the area for nearly three months."

"The priestess traveling with me may have a solution. If I may be so bold as to request a raven to be sent to the Wall, I would like to inform the queen of our progress."

"My father would have passed sentence for your crimes had you arrived sooner." Sansa looked over the man again, his bright blue eyes were etched with weariness. "But as you are in the service to the Queen of Westeros, I will allow my husband to confer with her grace regarding your debt to the realm."

"It is in the service of the queen that I am here, my lady. I am traveling with a priestess for the Lord of Light, who is unwell. We would beg of your ladyship's generosity in sending a maester to assist her."

"An illness?" Sansa's eyes questioned. "Nothing contagious I hope."

"Exhaustion," Ser Jorah countered. "The snows have been particularly fierce and we have been laid low by lack of food and shelter."

Sansa's eyes remained impassive. "Winterfell has not been accustomed to visitors since the war began at the Wall." Sansa explained. "And I would hope you and your companion would understand that guest rights have been an area of concern for our house these past few years."

"I understand, my lady." Ser Jorah affirmed. "We would prefer to rest for a few days before making our way to Castle Black."

Sansa weighed the man's words carefully. "Our northern hospitality is open to you, my lord. However, I would ask you and the priestess remain in your rooms each night and to never enter the family wing of the keep. House Stark will provide provisions for you and your companion for the journey north."

"Thank you, my lady."

"Let it never be said, Ser, that House Stark doesn't recognize the obligation of guest rights, even if it is with a man who betrayed the laws of Westeros."

"In gratitude of your hospitality, I should like to be of service to you. Shall I take any correspondence to the King in the North for you, my lady?"

The corners of Sansa's mouth querked up in a small smile. "That form of trust must be earned in the North, Ser Jorah. If your priestess can melt the snow without taking any innocent lives, I would consider that service enough."

XxX

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	32. Chapter 32

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks to the reviewers for their feedback.**

 **Sorry about the earlier post of this chapter. I uploaded a notepad copy of my writing and some unrelated notes. Yes, there was a church mentioned. I needed it for a burial record. Long story.**

 **This is a short chapter leading up to the last few installments. Your reviews have meant a lot to me. I always look forward to hearing your thoughts.**

XxX

Chapter 32

At first, she didn't notice anything out of the ordinary.

Arya Stark had spent years inventorying and then promptly ignoring the multitude of scrapes, bruises, and knife wounds which had decorated her body. She could work hours without sleep, hold a sword in one hand for a day without putting it down, and was conditioned to consume the lowliest food to survive.

None of it prepared her for the almost panicky awareness of discovering she was carrying a child.

Her moonblood failed to appear. Then fatigue set in, a bone deep malaise which made wish to never leave her warm bed. She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, swallow down what food was available that day, and keep her wits sharp while her body lodged protest. Smells which had never bothered her before became overly pungent. Her breasts, which had always been small and almost boyish in appearance, ached in their bindings.

Another cycle passed without appearance of her moonblood. Then another. Leaving Bran's bedside for privacy of her husband's tent, Arya stripped her clothes off completely by the fire and took a careful appraisal of her body. Just over three months after her brother's revelation, Arya could see and feel the slight roundness of her lower belly and the growing fullness of her breasts.

With child. Not fully in bloom yet, but the signs were there. To some nobles, the babe growing in her womb would have simply been the heir to Storms End. Now, the child she carried was far more precious. Just as the army of the living were preparing for the final push to end the war against the Long Night, Arya Stark found herself carrying the greatest gift she could ever bestow upon her husband. To Gendry, it would be the embodiment of everything he'd ever wanted.

A child. A family.

Sansa had been right to fret. Pregnancies were easily lost early on. Three months wasn't enough time to guarantee the child would be born. But Bran's words had wormed their way into Arya's mind.

 _You, Gendry, and the baby._

She hadn't told Gendry. Not yet. She hadn't kept the news from him out of fear, or anger, or concern for her own safety, but rather for the well-being of her husband. Gendry was enmeshed in the planning of the final push against the Night King, and between his war councils, shifts on the wall, and the work he took at the forge, it wasn't unusual to feel him rise early before dawn and return late in the night.

Their lovemaking had become intermittent moments of short and frantic activity. Her husband slept deeply for a few hours before rousing himself to take a shift on the Wall. He caught snatches of sleep when he could. It was cold, stressful, and unsustainable routine.

The army, which had been at war with the undead for over a year, was mobilizing for their final attack. A newly arrived priestess for the Lord of Light had summoned some sort of magic which had melted the snows laying siege around Castle Black. Some of the troops were being sent by ship from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to a point north, to trek inward and surprise the undead army from one side, while another group was sent to the Shadow Tower to approach the wraiths from the other side. The army had been moving steadily, putting the pieces into place to surround the Night King all at once and unawares. In the meantime, the lack of men at Castle Black meant more work for everyone staying at the main fortification.

Jon had declined the use of escorts since the beginning of his reign, now, the queen's personal guards had been reduced to two Unsullied soldiers. Arya, Meera, Missandei, Brianne of Tarth, and even Tormund had taken to sitting with Bran at different times of the day and night. Ghost made a few appearances inside, but was content to guard the entrance to the king's tent. As the winter cold continued to draw in around them, Arya could almost make out words in the wind blowing down from the north.

 _Death is coming. Death is coming._

Gathering her clothing again, Arya felt a cold gush of air enter the tent. Gendry arrived earlier than she expected, bearing an armful of wood and a small ale sack. Arya threw the shirt over her head, leaving her chest bindings on the ground with the remainder of her garments.

"Hey." He greeted, kissing Arya gently before unloading the wood and placing a few logs on the brazier. "You're turning in then?"

"Yes," Arya replied. She rolled up her clothes together and placed them on the floor at the foot of the bed.

He looked worriedly at her. They didn't talk as much as they used to in the evenings. Arya kept her mouth shut, trying to just carry on in the hope her husband would be too tired to pursue his line of inquiry. Pulling up the covers, Arya unfolded another blanket for the bed. Gendry's face, both so handsome and careworn, furrowed in confusion for a moment when he saw his wife withdraw to the dark area of the tent.

"You alright?" He asked, chucking the wood on the fire. When his wife didn't respond, Gendry left the ale skin on the table and walked over to her.

"I'm fine." Arya sighed. Just saying the words felt like she was lying to her husband. Pushing that thought to the back of her mind, Arya continued to busy herself with the bedding. "I'm just tired."

She could feel Gendry's eyes on the back of her neck, the appraising and intense look he gave her when he knew she wasn't fessing up to something. He'd learned how to scale her walls and get her to talk when no one else could. It was in moments like this when Arya felt she was at an extreme disadvantage. It's not that she didn't want to tell him. She would have preferred to tell him in another month or so when the war was finally over.

"Arya," Gendry began, placing a hand on her back and another on her shoulder. "You haven't been yourself. You're not eating. If you're not well, you should see a maester."

"I'm fine." She reiterated. Her skin was prickling with awareness that Gendry wouldn't be satisfied with her answer.

Her husband turned her to face him. Arya's bare legs, always so steady and strong from years of training and constant running suddenly felt weak. Her impassive face must have twitched, or it was the way her eyes froze on his when he grimaced at her obstinacy.

"What's wrong?" His quiet words sounded brusk and direct, but Arya could feel the concern and frustration in them. She couldn't lie to him, so she shook her head and dropped her eyes. "Arya, what's is it? Tell me."

"I don't want to worry." Her quiet words seemed to fill the space around them.

"Worry 'bout what?" Gendry speculated. "You're not injured or you'd tell me quick enough."

When she didn't respond, he looked at her appraisingly, his eyes scouring her for signs of illness or hidden distress. Finding none, his gaze went pensive.

It was rare to see each other during the light of day when there was so much to do in the brief hours the sun made its appearance. Arya wouldn't have minded him seeing her naked much during the evenings when they coupled together under the furs. That was different. The shadows from the fire didn't allow him to scrutinize much, and his exhaustion dulled his ability see what was growing inside her.

He seemed to deduce her secret now. With a gentle touch, one of his hands reached under the hem of her shirt, fingertips tracing her hip. Arya gasped when his cold hand sought out the warm skin of her lower belly. The sudden cold contact against her skin made her shudder. His hand stayed there, the soft pressure of his hand feeling the growing bump she'd just become accustomed to seeing.

"You haven't bled for two months. I thought it was because you weren't eating proper." her husband said bluntly.

His words made her stomach drop to the floor.

For all her sharpness of mind, Arya had a problem forming words. The right words. A combination of imagery and sounds which would keep her husband focused on the war as opposed to what she was carrying inside her body.

Gendry's large palm held fast to the area where their child was growing. His hand, which was so large and strong, cupped her in a way which was protective and loving. Now that he knew, Arya couldn't help but feel their family's chances of overcoming this war was balanced on her shoulders.

 _You're almost there, and you're afraid you won't make it. The closer you get, the worse the fear gets._

"You don't need any distractions right now." Arya said a tad too harshly. "You need to be focused on fighting the war, not worrying about me."

"And our baby."

"That too." Arya agreed.

Gendry, bless him, pulled the rest of her body into his, still keeping his hand on the soft area of her abdomen. He kissed her head, her hair, her nose, and eyes. His lips worked their way down to her mouth, taking a sweet pull of breath before kissing her hard.

Her body was conditioned to respond to his touch. She wrapped and arm around his neck and interlaced her hand with his over her womb.

"I didn't want to tell you until I was sure." Arya said when the kiss ended.

"You're sure now?"

Arya sighed. "Anything can happen early on. I didn't want to lose it."

"You haven't and you won't." He said, kissing her again. His eyes, so tired from the goings-on around them bored into hers. "Would you listen to me if I told you to ride to Winterfell as fast as you can?"

Arya shook her head. "No. I'm not leaving."

She heard his inhale of dissatisfaction. He kissed her again, reverently this time. Her legs were cold, and her shiver made him snap back to awareness of just how under dressed she was. Gendry guided her to their small cot, pulled back the covers and helped her slide inside. As Arya reached to pull the shirt over her head, Gendry's hands appeared at the hem, helping her to discard the garment with the other at the foot of the bed. Layering the bedding over his wife, Gendry paused to admire his wife's naked chest. He didn't need to say anything. The desire in his eyes was obvious.

Arya didn't try to dissuade him. She watched as he discarded his own clothes and joined her in bed. Their cot was small, but they could lay against each other side by side. The close proximity only added to the comfort of the small space. Unlike their shortened bouts of coupling, theirs was a long exchange of kisses and words, of warm smiles and leisurely caresses. Gendry shifted his wife to lay above him, stretched out lazily so his mouth could tease her breasts. The two mounds were still aching and sensitive, but with careful attention she was groaning her approval.

When they joined, it was with joy and a smooth thrust. Arya sat upright, her forceful motions and contact with the little nub between her legs bringing her to pleasure. The aftershocks and fluttering of her channel finishing her husband off quickly after.

With Gendry spooned behind her, she felt one of his strong arms wrap around her neck and chest to hold her close, and the other to cup and stroke the warm bump of her belly. Arya felt content in the moment, her husband's strong arms acting like a shield against the cold and the dark. They talked about the past again, of the summer days in Winterfell and King's Landing. Of their childhood friends who were dead or lost, and of what they would eat when the war ended.

They didn't talk about the future, or of the spring, or even what to name their babe. Those were conversations to be had at another time when the press of the war was no longer upon them, and they were free to live, sleep, and dream in peace.

Arya fell asleep, her husband's warm caresses gradually fading as he drifted into dreams. The child in her womb continued to grow, and gods willing, they would all see it together.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	33. Chapter 33

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks to the reviewers for their feedback. My goal is to finish this before the premier of the new season. Hold on tight everyone!**

XxX

Chapter 33

Gendry mechanically adjusted his boots and armor. He attached two war hammers on the belt around his waist. The older hammer was his father's weapon, a serviceable relic of House Baratheon's past glory. Gendry carried it for the symbolism and the fact that he'd nearly lost his own hammer once. Gendry's own valerian steel hammer Night's Bane was a comforting weight on his hip. Two daggers were lodged at the thin space of each boot. Another dagger was attached to the underside of his left arm.

If he was going to meet the Night King and his army out on the battlefield, it was better to have a backup plan than relying on the larger weapons alone in his greatest time of need.

On the eve of battle, Gendry left the queen's council to spend the remainder of the cold dark of night in bed with his wife. She had helped him remove his garments, and spent several hours gripping her close and spending himself inside her warm heat. In the heavy dark before morning, he couldn't seem to pull away from her. While they were dressing, he let himself break down a little and sank to his knees to hold his face over the slight swell of her belly.

He'd nuzzled the soft roundness, kissing the warm skin of her abdomen tenderly, his hands at home on her slim hips. Arya had caressed the back of his head while he showered attention on their growing babe.

He was a father, or quite nearly one.

Part of him was over the moon, able to see and touch the child growing inside his wife. The primal half of him wanted to throw Arya on the nearest horse and ensure she was safely ensconced at Winterfell. For all he wished, Gendry knew what Arya wanted. She was a woman with warrior's heart and mind. Her body was honed from years of training and experience. The southern soldiers said she was Queen Nymeria of old, a keen military mind who brought men to their knees and bowed to no one.

They'd parted in the tent, sharing a long kiss without words. No goodbyes. No farewells. They'd even forgone 'good luck.' Arya had been the one to hold his face and look deeply into his eyes. "Fight and win." She'd said bluntly. "And when it's done, come find me."

Gendry had walked his wife to the King's tent, where Bran was warging a great number of animals to their cause. An unkindness of ravens and a murder of crows were perched on the open spaces around Castle Black and the tent encampment. Arya, Meera, Missandei, and two unsullied guards were inside the tent, waiting to begin guarding the Three Eyed Raven.

Gendry and Ser Davos said their farewells to Bran's guards, and made the short but cold journey to the metal gate below the wall. King Jon, his aunt Queen Daenerys, and Lord Tyrion were climbing atop their dragons in the small empty space outside of camp. The roars and shrill shrieks of the dragons filled the pre-dawn sky.

Everything was in place. The battle for the dawn would end in victory or defeat today.

Gendry pushed his concern for his wife to the back of his mind. The crush of men, swords, metal, and anticipation filled his senses. He understood now why his wife had been so hesitant to tell him about their babe. He needed to be focused and engaged in the battle ahead. His wife needed to do the same.

The bells sounded. The undead army was approaching for another assault. This time, the army would meet them in the sliver of land just on the other side of the wall. Running into formation with the rest of the troops, Gendry took note of the archers lining up behind the fighting men. The dragon glass arrows would help take out several lines of the dead, and entice more of the wraiths to focus on the iron door of the Wall.

The army of the dead was marching to their second death with what King Jon had planned.

His men in position, Gendry looked for Ser Davos. The Onion Knight was to his left with some of the wildings and northerners he'd helped recruit for the final push. Ser Jorah Mormont with his battalion of Unsullied were flanked to the right. Having just met the man a few days ago, Ser Jorah's father had been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. King Jon had been blunt in his assessment of the man, how the crime for selling free men and women of Westeros into slavery should be addressed before the final battle. Queen Daenerys had been insistent that Ser Jorah be forgiven of his crimes with the understanding he would never inherit land, titles, or further property. Jorah the Andal would live under the mercy and protection of the queen in her household.

To his credit, Ser Jorah had not requested his family's ancestral sword to be returned. It would have been a step too far to ask the King in the North to return a gift from late Lord Commander Mormont. It was unthinkable to return such a priceless gift back to a man who had broken the law, ran away from his crimes, and shamed his family.

The line of Unsullied, northern men, and southern soldiers stood in their lines. Gendry's hand reached for his battle axe, feeling the smooth weight of the Valerian steel as it balanced perfectly in his grip. Through the shifting snow of the early morning light, first small pocket of undead appeared. Gendry felt his feet shift, his legs wanting to run to meet the enemy. Years of patience at his forge gave him the mind to hold his place in line. There would be no rushing to on the blades of the undead army.

The archers gave a call, and the sky darkened with arrows. The first line of wraiths stumbled, fell, and turned to ice. A second volley of arrows filled the air, then another, and another. As the army of fifty thousand undead warriors ran closer to the wall, the shrieking of dragons filling the air. Just over the two hills, the hidden battalions were waiting for the signal to rush the army.

If all went well, the undead wraiths would be completely surrounded, giving the dragons the chance to assault the Night King and his commanders from the air. The sky darkened again with the beating of wings and feathers against the cold wind. The Three Eyed Raven was sending his legion of birds into battle.

And so with a fierce roar of dragons and birds overhead, the final war against the Long Night began.

XxX

Bran was calm, his sight enhanced by the thousand birds, mostly ravens and crows, at his command. Each feathered messenger carried a bit of Bran's essence wherever they flew. The Three Eyed Raven could see the undead army rushing the front lines of the men standing in front of the wall. His goodbrother Gendry Baratheon brought three wraiths down with a swing of his battle ax.

Even with the strength of men at arms defending the wall, they would soon be overwhelmed by the Night King's Army. Bran guided the birds up higher in the air, where he could see the two flanking armies of unsullied, free folk, and Dothraki ready to charge into battle.

Sending a crow down to sit on the soldier of each legion leader, the two flanked armies ran to join the fray. Above their heads, the screeching of dragons and the heat of dragon flame began to devour the undead army in great swaths of heat.

Through the eyes of the birds, Bran broke segment of his feathered army to swoop around the Night King and his remaining commanders. The blue-skinned general's frozen face looked unimpressed. The roar of a dragon overhead pushed Bran to send his birds into retreat to the larger of his forces. Queen Daenerys was raining flame down on the Night King and his legions from overhead. As the flames devoured all but two of the commanders, the Night King seemed content to sit astride his mount, the burn of dragon flame not seeming to affect him at all.

A pecking at his brain forced Bran to relinquish most of his hold on his bird legion. The alarm bird he'd left outside his tent was shifting and squawking unashamedly. Wraiths. Wraiths had breached part of the wall and were honing their way through camp, killing men as they went and collecting new undead soldiers in their wake.

Outside the tent was Arya, Meera Reed, Missandei, and two unsullied soldiers. Four warriors and one handmaiden left to defend him from attack. Bran turned his gaze back to the larger collection of birds at his command. The combined efforts of the flanked armies and the men holding the bottom of the wall were paying off. The dragons overhead gave no quarter as they rained fire on the wraiths below. The fighting was long, hard, and draining.

The alarm bird at camp allowed Bran to see Arya, Meera, and the unsullied soldiers beat back the undead circling the tent. His sister was a sight to behold. Graceful, focused, completely enmeshed in the warfare at hand. Her Valerian steel sword was an extension of her body, and she quickly dodged, weaved, and cut down each undead soldier in their turn. She was shouting instructions and taking on the most opponents in the circle.

Meera was amazing, shooting dragon glass arrows at the undead running through camp from afar and finishing others off with her dragon glass spears. Bran was humbled to see how his friend fought to keep him alive. He loved Meera, Bran thought. He had grown to love her over time. If she died protecting him, there'd be nothing left. He would grow old and forgotten inside a tree beyond the Wall.

Bran felt Missandei clutch his hand. The handmaiden was armed with a short sword, and was outwardly brave as she stood at the foot of his bed ready to take on any intruder.

"Hurry, Brandon Stark," Missandei implored. "The Night King must be finished soon or this will all be for naught."

Bran returned to his birds, watching as Queen Daenerys landed her dragon near the Night King, Drogon, throwing a wall of flame at the leader of the undead army. For all the fire and heat created by the dragon, the Night King stood still and unflinching.

The creature was made out of dragon glass, and was immune to everything but the sword of the Azor Ahai.

XxX

Jon rarely lost his mount. It was a long fall off the top of a dragon in flight, but when Rhaegal was injured by a well-timed sword to the eye, the green and bronze dragon fell to the ground. His dragon injured, Bran sent his winged steed back to camp with a terse command. Begrudgingly, Rhaegal followed his command.

He was stranded, alone and without allies, with a string of wraiths headed his way. Unsheathing his sword, Jon began picking off each wraith mechanically, letting the rush of battle and experience guide his hand. From his left, Jon saw Uncle Benjen and his steed rush the wraiths from the side, another sword to help cut down the seemingly never ending string of undead soldiers.

Neither man said much during the battle, letting the clang of steel on bone fill the empty winter air. When it was done, Jon saw the line of defense at Castle Black break, and a stream of wraiths rush the iron door of the Wall.

"Your fight isn't at the Wall," Uncle Benjen said sadly. "It's there." The elder Stark pointed at Queen Daenerys and her ever faithful Drogon breathing flame at the Night King and his remaining commanders.

"Arya and Bran are inside," Jon panted. "Who knows how many have already breeched the wall."

Benjen sheathed his sword and grabbed Jon by the shoulders. "You have to be the one to end it. And it'll take a sacrifice to do it."

"No. I'm not sacrificing what's left of my family," Jon said bluntly. "I won't do it. The Red God can take me as long as my family will live."

"You're not sacrificing Bran and Arya, not even Sansa or your son," Benjen countered. "Mine is the life you need to take."

"No!" Jon sputtered. "No. Not you. No." His heart and emotions were racing. His eyes met those of his uncle.

 _I just got you back._

"The Three Eyed Raven showed me in a vision. I'm what's left of the past. It has to be me." Benjen counseled quietly, the rough burr in his voice chiseling into Jon's brain.

"NO!" Jon panted heavily. "NO."

"My watch has ended, nephew. Finish it, and take me home to rest beside my brother and sister."

Home to Winterfell. Home to Sansa and Robb. Home with Arya, Bran, and Gendry by his side. All those reasons and more in exchange for the life of his uncle. Uncle Benjen. The last mentor from his childhood. One of the few people who'd loved him his whole life.

Dead by his hand.

It seemed too grotesque to deliberate.

"I've given my life and part of my death to the Watch." Uncle Benjen said. "End it, Jon, and take me home."

Jon's hands moved to the hilt of his sword, unsheathing it, he held it in one hand and embraced his uncle with the other arm.

"I'm sorry, uncle. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive. Goodbye, nephew." Benjen croaked.

It was the last time the two of them bid farewell. The man who plunged the sword into his uncle's heart wept unashamedly into the matted furs of the older man's coat. When the final shutter of life left Uncle Benjen's body, Jon gaped as he withdrew the steel from flesh.

His sword was illuminated in flame.

XxX

The dead just kept coming.

Arya swept the sweat and blood from her brow as she brought another wraith down to the ground. The small circle of soldiers guarding her brother were holding their own as more of the undead swarmed the camp. They were all barreling in to Bran's location. A few of the unsullied boys left the wall to join in the defense of the Three Eyed Raven. It was looking unlikely they could keep up the onslaught of the undead, especially when more and more of the wraiths were climbing the wall with few defenders to stand in their way.

Arya parried and dodged her way from each opponent, their skulls cracking with each clash of her sword on their bones. Dust shot through the air as one particularly decomposed body melted like dust into a small pile at her feet.

The press of battle made her body strong and her wits sharp. She fought without conscience, without care, without worry. Each encounter with a wraith was meted with the same result, a pile of bone and ash causing the snow at her feet to turn into a boggy, muddy mess.

She tucked concern for the babe she carried in the back of her mind. She wasn't sorry to be the strong sword arm her brother Bran needed. But a niggling part of her had wished she'd given birth already. The fragile little piece of Gendry growing inside her deserved to live after so many of the people she loved had died.

Arya thought of the baby in a rare moment of rest. She'd piled on an extra layer of leather bindings around her belly, hoping the extra padding would provide some protection to the babe during battle. _I never wanted to put you through this_. She grimaced, feeling her heart pull her to tell the truth. _Gendry – I mean, your father and I wanted you so badly._

Father. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Warrior. Smith. Stranger. The new gods and the old had refused her prayers.

The voice of Syrio Ferel bubbled in her mind. _There is only one God, and his name is death. And what do we say to death?_

"Not today." Arya spoke aloud while she blocked a sword aimed at her gut. "Not today." Her sword pierced the flesh of a newly risen southerner, his piercing blue eyes were a sign that her death was near. "Not today." Arya said as the Valerian steel sword in her hand sliced through the undead man.

The dead kept advancing, the outer line of their defenses must have broken through. One of the unsullied guards who'd fought side by side with her since morning finally expired, his eyes and body turning into a well-honed soldier for the Night King. "Not today." Arya cut him down without a second thought.

Still, the dead kept coming.

XxX

Jorah Mormont wasn't a man who ordinarily believed in signs. The outcast of Bear Island cut his way through the remaining wraiths to protect his queen. Her dragon was holding off some of the straggling undead which were emerging from the snowy white depths of permafrost below. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass sea had yet to engage the Night King in combat on her own, and Ser Jorah would be damned if he wasn't by her side to help her.

While the undead on the ground threatened to overwhelm Drogon, Jorah hacked away at the wraiths attempting to climb aboard the dragon. The Night King and two of his commanders were unsheathing their swords, intent on killing the dragon queen.

Daenerys seemed to take on a golden glow like the Targaryen conquerors of old Valyria. She commanded Drogon into the air again, circling the Night King from above as Jorah hacked at wraiths in a full sprint to the leaders of the undead army.

Lifting her sword in the sky, Daenerys commanded Drogon to breathe death down on the Night King. This time, like the last, the dead king refused to engage.

Jorah felt despair in that moment. Why wasn't the dragon's fire consuming the Night King? How were the undead managing to continue their assault?

Then he saw it. A man running through the white battlefield toward the Night King, sword aflame and wetness clinging to his cheeks.

Jon Snow, King in the North.

The flaming sword and the man wielding it caught the Night King's attention. The two wraith commanders dismounted, their gnarled hands impervious to the bitter cold rising from the north. Jorah engaged with both the commanders, fighting harder than he ever had in his life. The King in the North clashed with one of his opponents, using the speed and momentum to push the undead man to the ground and lop of his head with one thick stroke.

"Go!" Jorah yelled when Jon approached him. Drogon was on the ground again injured and no longer able to stay in flight. "I'll protect the queen."

The King in the North nodded, bringing his sword up in a fighting stance and charging the Night King.

Ser Jorah ended the life of the second commander, his body falling to icy blocks at his feet. Running again, he watched Daenerys unmount her dragon and slide gracefully to the ground. Drogon limped and cried out from the pain of his injuries.

Jon's flaming sword illuminated the hardened features of the Night King's face. Jorah tried to keep his attention on the legions of undead emerging from the ground under their feet. Although not a skilled fighter, Daenerys swiped away at the heads of the wraiths with her own Valerian steel sword. Jorah took great pains to distract the undead from fixating on the queen. There were other soldiers arriving as well, Grey Worm and Black Flea from the Unsullied army, as well as some of the Knights of the Vale, were running to protect their queen.

As well trained as the soldiers were to guard the life of Daenerys Stormborn, they all couldn't help but watch the duel between the Night King and the King in the North. Blocks, lunges, swings, were meted out stroke to stroke.

A hand emerged from beneath the snow, causing the King in the North to falter in his stance that Jorah's heart leapt with despair. The Night King's blade was aimed at Jon's head. Before the sword could make contact, a murder of crows rained down from the sky, distracting the undead king long enough for Jon to land a killing blow. The Night King reeled, his body in freefall, but Jon didn't hesitate. He freed himself from the hand beneath the snow and severed the head from the Night King's body.

The body dissolved into ice, separating into a thousand icy splinters as they spread across the ground. Everywhere, the undead army collapsed in their tracks, no longer beholden to the bidding of their leader.

It was done. It was over.

Silence swept the battlefield. The piercing winds and snow in the air slowed to a whisper, then stopped completely. With one swift stroke, the final battle was won.

As Jorah turned his attention back to the queen, he saw a knife and a hand belonging to one of the knights of the Vale extend in the direction of his monarch.

Without thinking, Jorah pushed Daenerys out of the way, taking the full impact of the blow into his chest. At first, he thought the dagger went wider than he imagined. But when he felt the blood pouring out of his chest, and saw the arrestor cut down by the two unsullied soldiers, he knew his instincts had saved the life of his queen.

The last thing he saw before he went to the Old Gods was beautiful face of Queen Daenerys looking down on him, her eyes flooded with tears, begging him to hang onto life. When he shook his head, she changed her tactic.

"I command you to stay at my side and never leave," Daenerys said amid a sea of tears. "I forgive you of all your past transgressions, but you must not die."

Jorah found the strength to advise his beloved queen one last time. "Valar morghulis, Khaleesi." He rasped, and with a final breath Jorah Mormont left the mortal plane to sit in a place of honor beside his ancestors.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	34. Chapter 34

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks to the reviewers for their feedback. My goal is to finish this before the premier of the new season. Hold on tight everyone!**

XxX

Chapter 34

XxX

 _Ser Davos Seaworth found himself walking alone along the seashore, in the sheltered cove just beneath the Red Keep. It was the same place he'd played at as a child. He knew the shallow pools close to the keep would be warm and welcoming, perfectly temperate and home to all the little snails and animals which had fascinated him as a lad. He knew every pool and rock on the beach, and where to find the right places to find a stray crab or fish to fill his underfed stomach._

 _How he wanted to swim in those waters again. Let the warmth and the waves wash away the cold racing through his body. He was so close now. All he had to do was take a larger step and he'd be at home in the sea he'd loved so much._

" _It's not your time yet," Brandon Stark's voice shook him from his musings. Davos turned, and he was aghast at what he saw. The young Lord Stark was standing, nay, walking toward him on the beach as if he was on a pleasant afternoon stroll._

" _You're walking." Davos said, disbelief in his voice._

" _Yes, I am," Bran said with a small smile. "I can walk here. Walk, leap, climb, and run. Whatever I wish. Just like you." He paused, taking in the scenery. "The water calls to you, doesn't it?"_

" _It does," Davos acknowledged. "But I can't bring myself to take a step toward it. Even though I want to, I've been standing here just thinking about it."_

" _The choice is yours, Ser Davos." Bran's voice sounded wise beyond his years. "You can stay here with me until you wake up, or you can step into the ocean and float away with the current."_

" _I'm sleeping?" This vision didn't feel like a dream. It felt eerily real._

" _You're at a tipping point between life and death. It's your decision to stay or go."_

 _Ser Davos heard voices then, words and greetings from the waves themselves. Snippets of conversations and encouragements from people he knew to be dead. His parents. His wife. His son. His friends long gone. They were beckoning him to join them in the waves. In a mad moment, Davos felt his heart race and his foot begin to move. He wanted to swim, wanted to walk closer to the voices in the water. But before he could, he stilled himself, and listened for one voice he mourned for in his heart._

 _It was small, sweet, and even pitched. The voice of Princess Shireen didn't beckon him to the waves, it whispered in the wind behind him. "Don't go, Onion Knight."_

 _Ser Davos turned, and instead of seeing the great expanse of the Red Keep rising above him, he was standing in the doorframe of a warm stone chamber, watching a lovely black haired woman rocking a cradle and humming softly. The room was much like the ones he knew in Winterfell, the Stark direwolf carved above the mantle and the warmth from the hearth filling his insides. The woman looked up at him, her large dark eyes touching part of his heart that he thought had long since died._

" _You're back," the woman's voice was rich and soft, the type of voice he could listen to forever. "We were waiting for you." Davos took a step toward her, wanting to kiss her hand and see the face of the babe in the cradle. He didn't care if it was a dream, or a fever, or an illusion. He'd walk through snow for a year and a day if it meant he could sit in the chair by her side forever._

 _The little bundle in the cradle wiggled, catching his eye. His feet moved of their own volition to pick up the babe and hold it close to his chest. As he approached, the voice of Shireen Baratheon whispered, "Wake up, Onion Knight. Wake up."_

" _Princess?"_

Davos awoke in the King's tent, his body aching and feeling cold to the bone. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the semi darkness of the tent's interior. There was a sharp pain in his right arm and leg, and there were bindings on body parts he couldn't feel anymore.

"Ser Davos," Gendry Baratheon's relieved face greeted him from the side of the bed. "The maesters thought you were done for." The younger man had a glass of ale handy, and with his strong arms helped Davos sit up enough to drink a few gulps. The ill brewed ale tasted like honey as it passed down his throat.

Davos coughed, taking in his surroundings property. The seashore was gone, a dream maybe or a trick of the mind. He was cold again, and the warmth of the water faded back into memory. Turning his head, Davos could see Brandon Stark sleeping in his cot nearby. His hand was held by Arya Stark, who was asleep in a makeshift bed nearby with the king's direwolf sprawled next to her.

"It's over?" Davos croaked. His throat and lungs burned from the cold air of the final battle. The shelter of the tent and the abundance of furs on his bed provided a measure of warmth, but he still felt the cold deep down in his marrow. The ale helped warm him, as did the presence of being among living, breathing people.

"Yeah," The stag lord helped him take a few more gulps of ale. Lord Gendry looked like a man who'd been awake for too long, the quiet after the battle wasn't enough to let him sleep. "You were in a sorry state when some of the free folk found ya. Almost frozen through with some nasty wounds. At first they thought you were dead, but you said something, loud as day, and they brought you here as quick as they could."

"We held the line?" Davos took a few more gulps of ale. The feeling was returning to his fingers. They were aching with cold, but they were in some sort of working order.

"Best we could, I suppose. The wraiths still managed to get over the wall and inside the camp. They were headed right for young Bran here. They'd marked him or something. Knew exactly where he was. Arya, Meera, and even the queen's handmaiden fought for him. The queen's guards said they were incredible." Gendry's eyes floated over to the sleeping form of his wife. There was a worry as well as an admiration there.

"The Night King? He's gone then?" Davos asked.

Gendry nodded. "Head lopped off, his body burst into ice by King Jon's sword."

Poetic. They'd be telling stories and writing songs about that battle. The Onion Knight rubbed his temple, trying to take on the barrage of information all at once. "His grace, he's alright?"

"He's seeing to the army, helping where he can and making sure they're all being cared for. We lost a lot of good men today, but it could have been worse. When the Night King fell his army fell with him. Now the men we're losing are the ones who have been exposed to the snow for so long. We almost lost you too, Ser Davos."

"Aye," Davos agreed. "When I was out there, on the ground and in the snow, death seemed like such a kinder, warmer place. You can't blame a man for wanting to be warm after being cold for so long."

"Was that what dying was like? A warm place?" The young lord asked, concern crinkling the corner of his eyes.

"I wonder if we all see different things. I saw the saltwater coast of my childhood, a warm summer day and the shimmer of Blackwater Bay. But something made me not want to go into those waters."

"What was it?"

Ser Davos grimaced, the moments on the beach fading away with each waking moment. The vision of the woman and the cradle losing some of its shape and sharpness. "I can't rightly remember."

XxX

The dissolution of the army took longer than Jon had anticipated. Cremating the dead, caring for the wounded, and repairing the fortifications of Castle Black was a process, and not something that could be rushed. There was mourning for the dead, a celebration for victory, and supplies to maintain while the army stayed in camp.

The southern armies from Dorne and the Free Cities left first, taking the road to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Half the Dothraki who had followed Queen Daenerys wanted to return home to their own land. They had placed their Khaleesi on the Iron Throne, now they wished to ride among the plains of their native shores.

The Knights of the Vale left next, their journey made swift by horses which had received the best of care in Last Hearth. The wounded men who needed transport sailed aboard a single boat headed for the harbors closer to the Vale.

The Northerners were the last to leave. Their homes close by, and with more time to heal, they headed to their hearths to settle down and let the winter pass by. Before leaving Castle Black, King Jon and Queen Daenerys held council with the men of the Night's Watch. The threat was over, they reasoned, the men were welcome to leave the castle and settle where they wished. Their service to the realm was considered paid in full.

The Night's Watchmen held out for some time, stating they'd made sacred vows to protect Westeros. It was the King in the North who convinced them otherwise.

"The Night's Watch has made vows to protect the realm from harm since the first war against the Night King. The Night King is gone, struck dead by my hand. In the lands south of here, there are women and children in need of husbands and fathers. Good people who would feel safer with your swords nearby.

"If you feel you cannot abandon your vows, I understand. The wall is a desolate place where many men wait for death. I would see that changed. So I ask you make a new vow. A vow that would see the Night's Watch flourish and thrive.

"Ten years of service to the Night's Watch, and a man's crimes will be pardoned. After that, any man of the Night's Watch may take a wife, raise a family and continue to be a brother. After twenty years of service, that man will receive a pension. More years of service increases that reward. No one should be sent to the Wall to die in the cold and dark without a reason. And I would not see a brave and sacred brotherhood wither away and die. There will be good men who will want to serve, to prove themselves, to be the sword against the darkness should it rise again. Make a new vow, begin a new chapter of the brotherhood, and watch the Night's Watch grow its numbers flourish and its ranks thrive."

Although he was no longer Lord Commander, Jon's words found their mark within the hearts of several men. There was discussion, negotiation, and heated exchanges. In the end, the vote was passed. Nearly all the men chose to stay, to renew their vows with the changes proposed by the King in the North, and the men who were eligible, take a wife from among the many widows and young women of Westeros.

"It would be easier if you just sent them to us," Edd Tollett suggested jokingly to Jon a few nights before the king was due to leave. "Supplies and women to marry. It would make the winter easier to bear."

Jon took a list of the men looking for wives and sent them to Sansa in Winterfell, as well as to the other houses of the North and the Riverlands. The prospect of a husband and support were an attractive package to widows and young women who wished to start their lives over again in the North.

It was the presence of women and children which would make the burden of the brotherhood easier to bear. Proper food and good ale prepared by skilled women would be the first step in fortifying men at the Wall. The laughter and voices of children who grew up in the shadow of the wall would bring color to a black and white world. The Watch would attract more men who wished to serve, as opposed to emptying the prisons of rapists, thieves, and highwaymen.

Arya Stark and Brianne of Tarth had impressed the hell out of the soldiers and men at the Wall during the Battle for the Long Night. It was probably only a matter of time until the Night's Watch included women in their ranks, as radical of an idea as that would have been not long ago. The sons and daughters of the Night's Watch may wish to stay on and help their parents.

When Jon rode out of Castle Black, the company of Northmen, free folk, and supply wagons were lined up behind him. Gendry, Meera, Ser Davos, Queen Daenerys, and Missandei traveled on horseback with him. Arya, Bran, Lady Olenna, Varys, and Lord Tyrion were housed in an improvised wheel house. Arya relented to riding in the wheel house, as her pregnant body had difficulty sitting atop a horse comfortably.

It was a journey of homecoming as well as a funeral march. There wasn't a house in the North that hadn't sacrificed sons and daughters in the War of the Five Kings or the Battle against the Long Night. In a place of honor, the body of Uncle Benjen traveled in a wagon behind the wheelhouse, the banner of House Stark tacked to the crate. The sacrifice of the Night's Watchman would be told around fires in the north and throughout Westeros for generations to come. The men departing the caravan south stopped and paid their respects to the fallen ranger before going about their way.

The King's Road stretched out, Jon rode the last weeks of the trip on little sleep and even less food. As King in the North, there had been little in the way of respite during the war against the Long Night. His role in the war and the immense changes in his life did not ease his burdens at all. Years of war and adversity had starved his mind and body. The words his wife sent him may have fortified him for victory, but they couldn't replace her presence. He wanted more than anything to lay his troubles down, put his sword on a mantle, and retreat into warmth and solitude with his wife and son. With a new era dawning, Jon found himself holding his breath and hoping the new age would be better than the one that had come before.

Three weeks into their march south, Jon saw the towers of Winterfell on the horizon, the high grey walls and smoke from Wintertown breaking up the white expanse of the landscape. As he approached, he could see the proud banners of House Stark streaking down from the battlements. The gray wolf on the sea of cream and green was a welcome sight.

He wasn't sure what he would see when his horse cantered into the courtyard of Winterfell, but he wasn't expecting to see twenty people lined up with their caps off to greet him. Unknown faces, bowing or curtsying to him. The only person standing tall and proud was a beautiful red-haired woman with pale skin, an impeccable grey cloak, and a fur bundle in her arms.

Sansa.

Jon couldn't remember dismounting his horse, or how long it took for him to walk through the courtyard. His eyes were too busy drinking in the sight of his wife, hale and healthy, her Tully blue eyes sparkling with happiness, and the wiggling bundle in her arms wrestling for a better look at all the excitement.

Robb.

Unlike their reunion at Castle Black several years ago, neither of them hesitated. Sansa shifted the baby up closer to let him to see the King in the North. Jon's mouth met Sansa's as he pulled her close, baby and all, and he drank from her lips like a man dying of thirst. Here was the sweetness he'd craved in the dark and cold. The woman with flame kissed hair was warm and welcoming, one of her arms embracing him in return as the baby between them made little sounds in return. Jon released his wife's lips, taking a moment to kiss the soft skin of her eyes and cheeks. The baby's wiggling interrupted the reunion, the little sounds Robb made pulled at Jon's heart.

Sansa's lashes lowered demurely, she might not have expected such an intimate greeting, but there was no displeasure in her eyes when she spoke. "Welcome home, husband."

Still tucked into her embrace, Jon looked down at the baby in her arms. At nearly six moons, Robb was a picture of health. Arya had been right, the baby was a Stark in looks and coloring. Sansa didn't wait for Jon to ask, she angled the baby into Jon's arms, helping him cradle the wiggling infant for the first time. As soon as Jon's eyes locked with those of his son's, Robb's excited little expression turned pensive. They studied each other, trying to take in every little detail.

Robb's solemn little face reminded Jon so much of himself. There were traces of Sansa in his features as well. Jon could spend hours gazing at his son, trying to decode the looks and thoughts churning behind those clear blue eyes. Holding his son, with Sansa's warm presence next to him thawed some of the cold around Jon's soul.

"Hello, Robb." Jon said softly. He kissed the baby's pensive brow, breathing in the scent of Sansa and warm milk into his lungs. The baby seemed mollified by the kiss, his hands reaching up to the mouth and beard of his father.

"Once he has a hold of something, he won't let go easily," Sansa said warmly. "I think he gets that from you."

Jon smiled, a pull of real emotion tugging his lips upward. "He's stubborn, like a Stark," Jon remarked, kissing the babe's forehead again and hoisting him upright to let the babe settle on his shoulder. Sansa adjusted the hood of Robb's blanket, an attempt to keep him warm against the cold air. Her eyes met Jon's and she smiled. A darling smile. At an earlier time, Jon would have hesitated, not wanting to spoil the moment. Now, he had the confidence to simply reach out and kiss his wife, wanting her to feel his gratitude for returning home to her and their son.

The kiss ended when the other riders dismounted and the wheelhouse rumbled to a stop. Servants left their places to assist with the horses and see to the comfort of their guests. Jon held Robb and watched as Arya emerged from the wheelhouse, and with a smile, bounded the few steps into Sansa's embrace. Arya's condition was hidden by a patched cloak, which surprised Sansa to no end.

"I thought you were waiting until the war was over!" Sansa exclaimed, moving the cloak away to see her sister's condition with her own eyes.

"I changed my mind," Arya said with a shrug.

"Arya," Sansa marveled at her sister's slight frame and pronounced belly. "This is unexpected! How wonderful!" The sisters embraced again.

There were more people to greet. Gendry and Lady Olenna were welcomed with warm embraces and kisses. The ever watchful Lord Varys received a soft nod and gentle clasp of hands. "You're looking more radiant than I've ever seen you, my lady." Varys intoned politely.

"You have helped to bring our king home again, Lord Varys," Sansa inclined her head. "I cannot thank you enough for your aid and council during this long war."

Queen Daenerys and her closest aides stepped through the mire of horses to Jon's side. Sansa met them all with a graceful nod and a warm smile.

"Your grace, Queen Daenerys. You and your household are most welcome here in Winterfell."

Polite greetings were exchanged, but there a feeling of warmth and genuine welcome in the words which passed between the two women. Jon stepped forward, Robb in his arms. Although he was loathe to pass his son on to another, he bit down on the impulse to pull his son closer. He would have years to hold his son close, see him grow into a young man, see the world through Robb's eyes.

"He's a beautiful boy," Daenerys marveled, her eyes misting over. She must be thinking of her long lost son, his life extinguished long ago in the eastern plains.

Robb was a Stark of Winterfell, but he was also a son of House Targaryen. The war against the Long Night had brought Jon and his Targaryen relations closer together. They trusted and respected each other, and the proof that kindship would carry on resided in the precious child Jon held in his arms.

"Aunt," Jon said with pride when he stood beside her. "Would you like to hold him?"

The Dragon Queen was fighting back tears, Robb's little face and eyes which looked at her trustingly melted the hearts of all those present. Daenerys tucked the child into the crook of her arm and smiled at him adoringly. The baby smiled, reached for a strand of his aunt's silver hair.

"He won't let go once he has it," Sansa said adoringly. "He has a strong grip."

"A lock of hair is a small price to pay for holding my nephew," the queen said lovingly. "Robb Stark, the Prince in the North."

XxX

Across the courtyard, Ser Davos dismounted his horse stiffly. His arm and his leg were giving him trouble again. He was stiff from riding in the cold, but was too proud not to ride beside his king. Everyone had been concerned for his health and well-being. But being a salty old sod, he politely muddled through, bearing the pain while his injuries healed and aiding the King in the North as well as he was able.

Not that there'd been a lot of duties to attend to on their journey south on the King's Road.

Now that he'd returned to Winterfell, things would be different. There were men to organize, repairs to be made, supplies to haul, and people to feed. It was the business of rebuilding which took effort than the act of tearing something down, and it often took a lot more time.

Pausing to rest for a moment by his horse, the stable boy looked at him for approval to leave. Davos closed his eyes, trying to shut the pain in his leg away to another place when a voice emerged behind him.

"Are you well, Ser? Can I help?"

It was the same rich timbre which haunted his dreams ever since he survived his brush with death. Davos turned his head, and a woman, with dark hair, pale skin, and bottomless brown eyes approached him carefully. In his pain riddled mind, he drank her in like a tonic, the bruised places of his body assuaged by her closeness.

"Are you injured?" The woman asked, concern and care evident in her voice and face.

Davos plastered on a smile. "An old injury from the war, my lady. Nothing a little time and a warm seat by the fire won't heal."

"I'm not a lady, Ser." The woman said softly, appraising his appearance and the stiffness of his body. "I'm Medda, Stewardess of Winterfell. I serve Lady Sansa in the running of the estate. Come with me. You need more than a chair and warm fire to heal to your injuries."

"Then I'm grateful, my lady, for your aid." The words came out in a rush. "I'm-"

"Ser Davos of House Seaworth, Hand of the King." Medda said swiftly. "Lady Sansa received a raven that you were unwell. Let's get you inside and see to that leg."

When she reached out to take his arm, Davos hissed in pain. The stewardess' mouth set in a firm line. "We'll see to that arm as well."

She walked him into the warmth of the keep, past the great hall, and to his previous chambers where the maester was waiting. Servants attend him with a medicinal bath, and when he'd washed the grime of the war from his skin, the maester applied poultices, bandages, and administered a small dose of sweet sleep. Although Davos didn't know the man well, Maester Wolken proved to be a swift and experienced healer.

When the maester and the servants left, Medda returned, her nimble fingers tucking the sheets and blankets around him, the motions and medicines soothing away the aches and pains of his body.

"You'll pardon me, my lady, if I fall asleep on you," Davos didn't want to close his eyes, but the call for rest was upon him.

If he wasn't mistaken, the woman beside him smiled gently. She blew the candle on the table out and sat with him in semi darkness. "Rest well, Ser Davos."

When he fell into dreams, Ser Davos dreamed of holding the stewardess' hand on warm summer day, and of the voices of children floating through the green leaves of the godswood of Winterfell.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	35. Chapter 35

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks to the reviewers for their feedback. This is the second to last chapter of the story. One more chapter to go!**

XxX

Chapter 35

Hand in hand, Arya led Gendry through the godswood. They had left the welcome feast just a few minutes ago, ducking through the side door of the great hall and out into the cold night air. Their cloaks were fastened securely, but they were little protection from the cutting wind. They weren't going very far, and the light from the full moon illuminated the path ahead.

Nymeria and Ghost were scampering happily nearby, sniffing and tracking the hares which were common to the woods. It would be a night were most people would stay close to their fires. But the big full moon called to Arya to walk amongst the trees of her youth, toward a large hot spring she'd swam in as a child.

As lovely as a bath would be, Arya craved the smell of the outdoors and the buoyancy of swimming in a deeper pool. She'd been looking forward to showing Gendry this spot since they were wed, and they hadn't had the chance to see it together before they left for the Wall.

"Not much further," Arya said, feeling the rush of guiding her husband through the deserted forest. After being surrounded by so many people for so long, it felt glorious not to feel the crush of other people around them.

"Are you sure you're feeling up to this?" Gendry's voice was a mixture of concern and care. "It would be easier to take a bath in the keep."

"It's not the same." Arya pointed out. Not long to go now.

"I can't swim," Gendry muttered. He wasn't keen on the idea of stripping down to his skin outside in the frigid elements just to flounder around helplessly in the water. "You know I can't swim."

"The spring's not _that_ deep," Arya wanted to roll her eyes. "You're taller than me. You'll be able to stand up in half of it. And I'll teach you how to swim."

"Just like you tried to teach me how to use a sword?" He grumbled back.

Arya didn't try to counter his jibe. "Didn't do you much good, did it? You were always better with a hammer anyway."

They turned a bend on the trail, and walked through a grove of trees. The rustle of dead leaves were the only sounds they could hear. The wind stilled, and when the grove opened, the hot spring was in front of them, steam rising high into the air, warming the ground around the edges.

Arya knew there was a rock outcrop to one side, where they could stash their clothing and gain entry into the spring easily. In the light of the moon, she found the spot she was looking for, and hastily removed her garments.

She'd never swam here in the winter, and wasn't sure how long they'd be able to stay submerged. Even the coldest nights she'd known seemed temperate compared to the harsh cold gripping the air now. She shivered in the frigid night, and hurriedly launched herself into the welcoming warmth of the spring. A step, a lunge, and she was gliding through the water. It was glorious.

Arya felt light, her body no longer sluggish and awkward from her pregnancy. The pressure on her ankles and back faded away, and she swam slowly away from the embankment, relishing the freedom of the warm water and the quiet night.

Gendry joined her in the water. He wasn't a swimmer by any means, so he was able to place his feet on the bottom of the pool and make a few strides toward her. Arya smiled, ducking under the water and emerging at his side, pulling his hand to walk to the depth where the water rose to his neck.

"No more!" Gendry yelled, in half panic half exasperation. Arya laughed, latching her arms around his neck and taking a moment to enjoy her husband's discomfiture.

"You're standing on the bottom and you don't need to swim. Feel how warm the water is?"

"I would feel a lot better if I wasn't a step away from drowning." The worried petulance in his voice caused Arya to relent, letting him take a few steps backward to a higher foothold.

"If you knew how to swim, it wouldn't be so scary."

When he was steady she pushed off of his strong chest, swimming on her back, toward the other end of the spring. Warmed by the heat of the water, she found shallow place to stand. Everything from thighs to the top of her head were exposed to the steam and cool air of the night. The contrast of hot and cold licked at different places on her skin, little rivers of water trembled down her flesh and back into the spring where it belonged.

She felt like a wolf in that moment, at home in quiet and solitude of the woods. The smell of the loamy earth and crisp northern air filling her senses. The growing bulge of her womb jutting proudly from her body. She was the She-Wolf of Winterfell, and by the gods did she know it.

Gendry watched Arya with curious eyes, his strong shoulders exposed to the air. He looked at her appreciatively, his gaze wandering her lithe form slowly. It had been too cold after the final battle to take this sort of time to show him the changes to her body. He could see it through the makeshift clothes she'd patched together, and his hands had surveyed her growing womb when they were abed. But it was different seeing her free of garments and furs, and illuminated by the light of a silvery moon. He couldn't wait to see her laid out in their bed with the morning sun gliding across her body.

He'd hardly seen his wife these three weeks. He cuddled her close at night in the wheelhouse to sleep, but the blankets and furs provided little privacy for intimacies. Gendry had anticipated they'd excuse themselves from the welcome feast at some point, take a long bath and fall into bed. He would have been open to whatever his wife desired when they were safely ensconced in their rooms. Her pregnancy had made her downright demanding for coupling. Not that he was complaining.

But Gendry wasn't expecting a late-night romp through the forest and a near dunking in a hot spring. Arya had been right. The water felt wonderful. But he was having a hard time enjoying the experience as much as his wife. He was uncomfortable being surrounded by this much water. It harkened back to the memory of paddling Ser Davos' stolen little rowboat from Dragonstone all the way back to King's Landing. Knowing recapture meant certain death, he'd been able to hold his anxiety about the water away from the forefront of his mind.

He'd stubbornly held onto the oars of the boat, his strong arms learning how to pull the wood through the water. Sleep came in snatches, and he rationed his provisions until he'd seen the familiar docks of Flea Bottom. After that close scrape with death, he hadn't wanted be that near to water again.

When Gendry saw his wife smiling, her eyes shining and her expression wolfish, he began to change his mind about this current excursion. Arya glided back into the water, sending small waves and ripples across the glassy surface of the spring. Her arms and legs reached through the water in sync, before turning on her back and floating easily, her breasts and belly emerging from the spring like islands on the ocean horizon.

His wife knew what she was doing. Since he learned about her pregnancy, it took little more than a sultry look from her to make him go hard. She never used it as a weapon, but rather as physical cue that she wanted him. It was easier for Gendry to simply tell his wife what he needed. He was better with words and actions, especially if those two things gave him access to the sweet private areas of her body.

Now with this floating tableau of her body just tantalizingly out of reach, Gendry's blood began to pound. She was teasing him a bit, he thought. Daring him to leave the safety of the shallows to fetch her. She was the wolf waiting for him just outside the shadows of the fire, waiting for him to make a move.

Desire could make a man walk barefoot across a kingdom. Gendry Baratheon wasn't a man devoid of such an emotion. He took two slow steps forward in the water, held his breath, and awkwardly paddled his way forward. It was a flailing, graceless set of motions, but he was trying. Arya broke from her floating to watch him swim closer, a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye.

He managed to tread water long enough to meet her in the middle of the spring. Arya swam away, headed for the opposite shore. She was tantalizingly out of reach, Gendry's arms and legs were having a problem catching up to her. When his feet found the floor of the spring, he used his legs to propel him forward, and snatch her up into his arms.

"You can swim!" Arya laughed, a burst of sound which sounded so lovely. He kissed the sound from her lips, and used his hands to coax her body to a shallow rock near the entry point of the pool. It was perfect for what he thought she had in mind, a modestly slow bout of lovemaking made more comfortable in the element of warm water.

When he kissed her, hoisting her body close to his, he found an outcropping of rock. Her mouth attacked his, demanding fire and intimacy on a level he hadn't felt in months. Her hands were in his hair, and their lips battled for dominance while Gendry sat his wife down on a submerged rock, and after whispering his intentions in her ear, slowly parted her legs and caressed the soft cleft of her womanhood.

The warmth of his wife matched the temperature of the water as he circled her little pearl of desire, and used a finger to explore her channel. It wasn't long before she was panting, aching, and abruptly pushing his hand away to join with him completely. Hitching her legs around his back, Gendry groaned as his length glided inside his wife. His thrusts were slow and deep, and Arya surprised him by nipping at his earlobe and planting little love bites down his neck. She reached below the water and massaged the warm little sacs below his manhood, causing him to groan and thrust into her wildly.

In a haze of lust and desire, Gendry adjusted his angle and shifted her to a spot where he could reach between him and rub her cleft vigorously. For all the pleasure she was giving him, he wanted to see Arya's eyes roll back when she found her peak, and help her ride out the waves of pleasure while he spilled over inside her.

When Arya's final cries ended with a groan, Gendry let himself go, finding release in his wife's body. The horse yell which erupted from his throat filled the empty forest. It took a few moments before they came back to each other, skin tingling and muscles twitching in the warm water. Slumped together, Gendry could feel the swell of the baby between them. Judging from the size of his wife's womb, he and Arya wouldn't be able to enjoy this particular position for much longer.

"Let's go home," Arya said, her head drooping on his shoulder. She wouldn't admit she was tired, or that she had over extended herself. Gendry hated separating from her, but he wanted to stretch out in their bed tonight, and rouse her in the morning with a kiss and another bout of coupling.

"Yeah," Gendry said, kissing her head and pulling her closer. "Let's go home."

XxX

Jon settled his son into the Stark family cradle for the first time. Robb's eyes were fluttering, his body in a state between dreams and waking. Jon couldn't fathom what babies dreamed about when they slept, but from the contented huff and small smile on his son's face, Robb was bound to rest easily tonight. Pulling the small blanket of furs up to the babe's chest, Jon ventured one more kiss to Robb's brow, bidding him a hushed 'goodnight' before allowing the nursery maid to take her seat beside the cradle.

One of the free folk tended to his son a night, a sturdy woman named Oona who had raised five children in Hardhome before being ferried away to safety by the Night's Watch. All her children were safe and thriving at Winterfell, helping to hunt and trap in the forests and streams around the keep.

"No kneeler will get past me, King Crow." Oona assured him. "All five of mine are alive because of you and your black brothers. I'll stay on to see to your first five waines, and then we'll see where I'm meant to be after that."

It was humbling to meet someone he'd helped save from death, knowing how it would have turned out if he'd made another choice. Knowing the free folk as he did, Sansa had made an astute choice in placing Oona in Winterfell's nursery. The free folk were proud, and frankly, didn't give a fuck for the temptations and rewards offered to southerners. With blades, bravery, and an uncomplicated sense of honor, Oona was the type of protector his son needed.

Jon nodded to the woman, thanking her for her kind words. Oona smiled at him, a smirk of knowing and motherly advice. "Winter is long and you'll want to see to your wife, King Crow. The next babe will come quickly if you're keen on it."

Jon just nodded, and stalked swiftly from the room, Oona's soft chuckle fading behind him. He walked to the lord's chambers, knocking softly before he entered. Sansa was absent from the room, but evidence of her presence was everywhere. There was a delicate table and mirror in a corner by the window, her hairbrush, combs, and ribbons placed neatly in a row. One of her cloaks was hung on the peg by the door. Her boots and slippers were housed under the narrow space of the wardrobe. The bed had a new coverlet, a handsome gray-green fabric embroidered with direwolves. The bed was already turned down, waiting for the lord and the lady of the house to retire.

Jon felt his face flush, as it often did when he thought about bedding his wife. Between the welcome feast and settling their guests into the hospitality of Winterfell, Jon had spent the day by Sansa's side. They'd supped together in the Great Hall, watching Robb being passed from person to person at the high table. Her hand had slid into his during the meal, their entwined fingers sending little bolts of lightning through his body. She pressed her head close to his, sharing words over the din of the room, her breath in his ear and the scent of her skin filling his senses. The center of his trousers had ached, the months of longing for her held at bay while they sat side by side in full view of their guests.

He'd promised himself he would court her when he returned home. He'd be patient, like a good suitor, taking her for walks, spending the evenings with her and Robb, plucking winter blue roses from the gardens to put in her hair. He'd discover what made her happy, what made her smile, how she liked to be kissed…

A servant emerged from the private bathing room adjacent to the solar. The young woman squeaked in surprise, not expecting to see her lord in the flesh.

"Lady Sansa asked a bath to be prepared for you, m'lord." Her anxious voice blurted out. "It's just through there. Do you want someone sent to help you?"

"No, I'll be fine." Jon replied. The servant dipped a quick curtsey and scampered from the room.

Hoping to find some relief from his inner torment, Jon undressed haphazardly before sinking into the steaming tub. He hadn't been immersed in this much water since before he left for the Wall. The tub was large enough for two people, allowing him space to stretch, soak, and rid himself of the ordeals of the long journey home. Thinking back on the hungry kiss he'd shared with his wife, Jon was tempted to take himself in hand, absolve himself of his need for his red-haired wife before they retired chastely to bed. Absorbed in his solitude, he didn't hear the door to the chamber open and close quietly, or the rustle of skirts nearing as he weighed his options.

When Jon opened his eyes, he thought he was dreaming. Sansa stood at the foot of his bath, her beautiful face looking at him with womanly longing, appraising the parts of his body submerged in the water. It took him a moment to push back the rush of blood to his groin, and find a calm place in his mind. Sansa needed patience and care, not rutting lust.

"I came to help you with your bath," She said softly, her eyes met Jon's, and he felt his heart beat faster in his chest. He needed to get a hold on himself.

"I'm fine," his voice sounded rough. "Just give me a minute and I'll be out."

She nodded demurely before disappearing into the solar. Jon let out a breath and shuttered. Plunging his hands back into the water, he washed his face, attempting to wipe the want for his wife out of his mind.

Water trickling down his skin, Jon toweled himself off, and finding an old robe hung on the wall nearby, he hoped he could bid his wife a polite good night before spending the evening in his old room. His will was iron. He would see to Sansa's comfort, then take his leave. Shoving his arms through the garment, he hastily pulled the center strap and walked through the door.

Sansa was sitting at the little table, brushing out her long red hair, donned only in her night shift. Gods be good. She tilted her head up, the last stroke of the brush flowing through the glorious locks of her red hair, her warm gaze making his mouth go dry. The candle light in the room made the night shift take on a transparent glow, the gentle curves of her breasts and body faintly outlined in the fabric.

He needed to leave now.

"I'll stay in my old room tonight," Jon made an effort to keep the words polite and even toned. The expression on her face was thoughtful as she rose from her seat.

"We've shared a bed before, when we were first married." Sansa pointed out. She approached him slowly. "This is our bed. I won't chase you from it."

"It's better if I sleep elsewhere," Jon began. "I've been gone for a long time, and we shouldn't rush things."

"Rush things?" Sansa looked at him questioningly.

"We rushed into marriage," Jon tried to keep his tone neutral. "I should have courted you before we were wed. We should have had time to get used to one another, to come together naturally instead of..."

"Being forced to join out of necessity?" Sansa supplied. Her hands came up to where he was gripping the tie of his robe. The gentle touch of her fingers made his hands quiver.

"I'm familiar with courtship," She replied, stroking his hands with her hers. "You're right. There are long walks, polite games of chess, and dancing in full view of the court. A lady learns to trust the man who seeks her hand." Sansa moved closer, gliding one hand down the chest of his robe. "I want to tell you, there's no one I trust more than you, Jon."

Jon swallowed hard, his wife's closeness and gentle ministrations heated his blood. "You deserve better," He half-whispered. "You deserve to be loved." The truth was out. In the few words he could muster, he was able to unburden his mind.

"I know I'm loved," Sansa's voice was filled with soft confidence. "I felt it for the first time on our wedding night when you gave me the choice to call our marriage off. I felt it again the next morning when you made love to me, gently and slowly." Her fingers burrowed under the fabric of his robe, her hand coming to rest on the warm skin over his heart. "I felt it two more times in our bed before you left, and in the kiss you gave me before you rode north. Every letter, every scroll, each word on parchment from you made me feel loved."

"Sansa," Jon hissed. Her words, her touch, and her presence were undermining his determination.

"I felt you one night," Sansa said gently, her eyes meeting his with a heady gaze. "When I was carrying Robb. I feel asleep in the chair over there by the fire." Her head turned toward the sitting area nearby. "I was dozing with Nymeria's head in my lap, and you were there. I could feel you next to me. I heard what you said to me. I believed every word you said."

Jon felt his heart expand in his chest. He was at the point of no return. Biting the inside of his cheek, Jon leaned into his wife's body. "Tell me to leave, Sansa." He bit out. "I didn't come here to pressure you into bed out of duty."

"I've spent over a year dreaming of you in a cold bed," Sans said slowly, gently untying the sash at Jon's waist. Her fingers ghosted past his erect manhood before her palm found the steady line of his hip. "I would please me to lay with my husband. The man who loved me before I recognized it myself."

Her words unleashed a flood of pent up longing and emotion. Jon groaned as she kissed him firmly, her sweet breath mingling with his in a tide of heat and trust. She enveloped him fully in her arms, hands tracing the strong panes of his back. Sansa pushed back on the fabric of Jon's robe inspiring him to rid himself of the last vestiges of his control, leaving him naked to her gaze and ministrations.

"I love you," Jon said lowly, his arms crushing her close. "I loved you the day I married you, and every day more after that."

"You won me," Sansa half-whispered, her eyes misting over with emotion. "I never would have believed it. But you did." She kissed the scar above his eye and the breathed in his deep pants. "I love you, Jon. You're everything I've ever wanted."

His heart bursting, Jon lifted his wife's legs around his waist, drinking from her mouth like a man deprived of water too long. He lifted and tore at Sansa's shift, her body squirming out of the garment until it dropped unused to the floor. They drank deeply from each other, hands exploring, pulses racing with heat and arousal. Bodies rolling, tongues tangling, they pushed and pulled together, finding the spots that elicited moans and sighs.

Jon felt Sansa push him over onto his back, the inside of her soft thighs holding him in place below her body. His manhood was hard, aching for relief, and the blood pumped in his ears as she rose above him purposefully. Sansa guided one of his hands up to her chin in a gentle caress, enveloping his thumb in her hot, pink mouth. She sucked gently before biting gently down on his flesh. Her hips floated above his length, making him shake with need.

When his thumb had been thoroughly wetted, Sansa kissed his palm, drawing out the kiss with a long draw of her mouth. Jon's manhood turned to steel as he watched her guide his thumb to the tuft of red hair between her legs, leading him to the place which brought her the most pleasure. He needed no further prompting. Sansa gasped loudly as his wet thumb made contact with her center, her hips moved of their own volition. She threw her head back and panted heavily.

The molten warmth between her legs was unlike anything Jon could recall feeling. He groaned when she folded forward and kissed him soundly, one of his fingers tracing the opening of her womanhood. The sound of her breathy little moans and pants fueled his desire further. When she pressed herself down on his erection, Jon worked himself into the plump wet folds with vigor. This would not be a gentle coupling. The blood in his veins called out to claim his wife in a way he couldn't have acted upon before. Here she was, a goddess rising above him. Her hair was a thick curtain of flame down her back. The paleness of her skin contrasting against the darkness of the room. Sansa panted, shook, moaned, and cried out his name. She was wet and aching for him and him alone.

She captured his length in her hand, and hands shaking with need, impaled herself down on him completely. A horse yell left Jon's throat. Perfect. She felt so damn perfect. He gave himself a moment to enjoy the luscious grip of her sheath around his manhood before bracing his feet on the bed and thrusting up inside her.

Sansa leaned back, her hands bracing against his knees, which caused her breasts to thrust upward. They found a rhythm that suited their fervor. Jon could have stayed there forever, one hand pleasuring his wife while the other helped steady her body for his thrusts. "So good." Sansa panted. "So good. Oh gods, Jon. So good. Don't stop." She careened loudly when his thrust brushed against a sensitive spot inside her.

Jon could only grunt, pant, and gnash his teeth. She was so damn beautiful, it made his heart want to burst. When he felt his balls begin to tighten, Jon rubbed the sensitive little nub between his wife's legs with renewed vigor. Sansa's hips bucked, her eyes widened and she whimpered his name loudly when she reached her peak. Her inner muscles clamped around him tightly, giving him the extra stimulation he needed to find his own release. Jon cumulated with a shout, his hands gripping his wife's hips as his liquid desire shot up inside her. He pulled her back and forth against him, extending his pleasure until he felt the last of his seed leave his body.

Sansa collapsed on his chest, panting and curling her head under his chin. Her arms burrowed under his shoulders and she kissed the sensitive skin of his throat. She continued to chant his name like a prayer.

"I love you," Jon panted heavily as he closed his eyes. "I love you." It was the closest thing to perfection he had ever known.

They fell asleep joined, and when Jon shifted in the night to sleep spooned behind her, Sansa brought his hand to her breasts and flexed her back neck to kiss him longingly. They spent the remainder of the night and most of the morning entwined or pursuing the physical pleasures of their marriage bed. An hour after dawn, a subtle knock on the solar door interrupted their sleep. Sansa left the bed, donning Jon's discarded robe from the floor, and unbolted the lock. She reappeared shortly with Robb in her arms, sliding beneath the covers with her son cradled against her chest.

Jon sat upright, his back against the headboard, and smiled adoringly at her when she angled into the empty space in front of him. She shed the upper half of the robe with his help, and brought Robb to nurse at her breast. Sansa leaned back into her husband's chest with a sigh of contentment as their son suckled. Jon brought his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder, kissing patterns over her soft skin.

This is what he had fought for, Jon mused, watching his wife nurse their babe. Every scar he'd taken, every bruise on his body and in his heart, had been for people everywhere in Westeros to wake up each day, free to hold their children close, kiss the wife or husband at their side, and know an ancient terror would never darken their door.

They were free now, he thought, free to live their lives, raise their children. Rebuild the world anew, and make the world a better place for generations not yet born.

Sansa began to sing softly, her skin glowing in the light of a new day. Her sweet voice filled the room with images of springtime and of new love. She sang for both Robb and him, he could feel it floating through each note. Jon kissed her cheek and smiled, feeling a sense of happiness and contentment flowing through his veins.

No man could wish for a better homecoming.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	36. Chapter 36

**A Future We Would Make Ourselves**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **Thanks to the reviewers for their feedback. This was a little late, as I was swamped with projects IRL. This has been a great ride. Thanks for being part of the journey. Don't forget to leave a review.**

XxX

Chapter 36

Tormund Giantsbane standing just left of the yard enjoying his second favorite past time in Winterfell – watching the ample figure of Brianne of Tarth spar with one of her many opponents. The way the lady moved, her sword strokes measured and confident, never failed to make him smile. She was a rare woman, and he'd been patiently waiting to pluck her up for more moons than he could recall.

Tormund was a patient hunter. He knew when to flush game, when to wait for an animal to become snared in a trap, and how to piss far enough away from the fish as to not disturb them during spearfishing. All of that came in handy when providing for his people during the long winter.

But what he desired more, was to coax his cock between the legs of a certain blonde southerner.

When he first saw his lady ride through the gates of Castle Black, Tormund thought he was seeing a vision from the Old Gods – a warrior princess from long ago reborn with armor and steel. He was besotted with her, really. Couldn't take his eyes off her.

He'd given Brianne signs of his interest many a time. She'd rolled her eyes and stalked away. He didn't need to force women into his bed. If they were amenable to a long hot night with him under the furs, they'd find their way to his tent soon enough.

But Lady Brianne was different, he supposed. Southerners were removed from the traditions of the free folk. More prudish. Less direct. A warrior lady with armor was bound to play by a different set of rules than his own people. She seemed flustered and uncomfortable with him all the time, as if she didn't know how to accept his advances. She was probably still a maid. No man south of the Wall knew how to handle such a strong and capable creature.

Kneelers were fickle that way, he thought. Tossing away a woman just because she wasn't the kind to wear pretty dresses and sit around all day. It was a shame, really. If she'd been among his people, he would have stolen her away within a month before another man could claim her. There'd be bruises, a few broken fingers, maybe a dislocated shoulder, but he would have had her wet and wanting before he was beat up too badly. Skittish as a stolen horse, his goddess. By the Old Gods, he'd love to be the one to ride her. And then watch her ride him.

Blood pooled in his leggings when Tormund saw his lady knock her opponent down. Brianne stood over the man, and helped him up, giving him a few kind words in return. She glanced up for a moment and met his stare. Tormund's mouth watered, he shot her a suggestive look and wiggled his eyebrows. She couldn't mistake his intentions. Brianne went still, caught between fight and flight, before she turned her back and walked hastily toward the armory.

Letting out a sigh, Tormond watched her shapely backside disappear through the archway. She was the itch that refused to be scratched, he thought. He wanted no other body beneath him but that mighty woman. He'd wear her down gradually. Maybe let her rough him up a bit in a match or two. Let her get close so he could smell the scent of her skin. That would be a victory in itself.

The servant who appeared next to him interrupted Tormund's thoughts.

"The king has asked for you, ser," the boy's voice didn't shake, but it cracked a bit belaying his age. He couldn't be any more than fourteen and probably enlisted to help house and see to the guests. Why was everything in this place so damn orderly? Why didn't they all just see to the place and be done with it?

"I'm no fucking ser, boy." Tormund corrected the lad, though not unkindly. The lands of always winter still ran through his veins, and he'd be damned if he'd accept a bloody kneeler's title from someone sent to fetch him.

"I'm sorry," the skinny lad apologized with a quick breath. "What title would you prefer?"

"Tormund Giantsbane will do." Tormund watched the boy's eyes widen, the rumors of his people's exploits at the wall were no doubt circulating among the kneelers here. Their keeps were safe due in part to the sacrifices of his people, and he was going to damn well remind them of it. "Show me where the king is holding up these days, when he's not with his pretty wife."

They walked together through the stone corridors of Winterfell to the King Crow's familiar council room. Tormund had drifted into the place before they left for the war at the Wall, listening to plans and pointing out flaws when it suited him. Now that the war was over and the alliance of armies were returning to their homes, Tormund hadn't seen the crow king at all.

He'd seen plenty of him the day they arrived in Winterfell, sitting beside his red-haired lady and looking like a man being thawed out from a long freeze. Then he'd disappeared into his rooms for a bath and hadn't been seen for over two days. No sign of the lady either. Now the former Snow had surfaced from his wife's bed to start commanding folk around again.

Fucking kneelers. Always throwing away a good opportunity to dive deep inside a willing woman to scrabble about with things that really didn't matter.

Tormund didn't knock, he just pushed the door open, smiling faintly when he saw the Three Eyed Raven, the King in the North, and the Mother of Dragons conversing softly around a table. They were discussing the little hatchling dragons who were being kept warm and safe in the queen's chambers, all three being kept entertained and well fed by Lord Tyrion and an ever helpful Missandei.

"Thought you would've stayed holed up with your wife for a week, King Crow." Tormund greeted, enjoying the way Jon looked contrite at being called out for ploughing his wife. "She still abed recovering from what you gave her?"

Tormund grinned at the Mother of Dragons, who cast her eyes downward in silent amusement. The boy raven, however, just stared passively at him. Brandon Stark was a tough one to read.

Letting out a breath, the king recovered his wits. "I wanted to discuss the future of free folk with you, and to see if they'd be amiable to what the queen and I have in mind."

Tormund smiled broadly at the silver haired lady, whom he liked even more since he saw her emerge from a flaming pyre unharmed. She had yet to ask him to bend the knee, and since Tormund had saved the life of the Unsullied commander at one point, he reckoned she'd be unlikely to ask.

"You look like you need a drink, little raven," Tormund surmised.

"Just tired," Bran said dully. "I haven't slept well since we arrived."

Tormund nodded sagely. "Is the reason have dark curly hair and carry a bow? Because if it is, I can tell you how to remedy that."

Bran shook his head with a sad smile. "I can't steal her. I wouldn't get very far." The wheeled chair the lad was sitting in was a marvel to be sure, but it was obvious it wouldn't take the place of two strong legs.

"You could set a trap for her. Use your chair to your advantage." Tormund suggested.

The king interrupted before the juicy parts of the plan could be spoken openly. "There's no one left north of the wall, from what we know. All the surviving free folk are here in Winterfell or up at Castle Black. Your people need a warm place to congregate this winter, as well as a permeant place to call home. The Boltons are dead and gone. Their keep at Dreadfort is nearly empty, and the lands abut Winterfell's boundaries. I'd like to offer it to you and your people in gratitude for what you've done."

"A keep?" Tormund said stiffly. "What the fuck am I going to do with a heap of stone?"

"You'd be Lord Tormund of House Giantsbane. Protector of the north and leader of the free folk south of the wall. Your people fought and died beside the other houses to help take back Winterfell, and they rallied with the armies of Westeros to defeat the Night King. They deserve a land to call their own."

"I'm no kneeler," The caution in Tormund's voice was evident. "The free folk kneel to no man or woman."

"And I wouldn't ask it of you," Jon agreed. "We've worked, fought, and bled together for a long time now. The free folk should be free to move about the lands of the Dreadfort and Winterfell freely, hunting, trading, and tending crops if they wish to grow them. There are children, women, and old people who should stay warm by the hearth and know they don't have to worry about how to feed themselves this winter. You're they're leader. I'm not. So I'll ask you to be Lord of the Dreadfort, and continue to lead and provide for your people without visiting violence on others. Come spring, should the free folk wish to return north or stay here is up to them. No one will stop them from coming or going north as they please. I leave it to you to make the decision to stay, go, or travel when ready."

It wasn't a bad idea in theory. A large keep for his people, there were just under three thousand of them now. Some would want to camp and hunt, while the orphans, little children, and most venerable folk could be housed inside. The King Crow hadn't gone back on his word since he'd taken up arms with him. Could a lordship really be the answer to surviving the winter?

"I'm not a lord," Tormund reminded the king. "Don't want a title. Don't need a title."

"I didn't want mine either," Jon countered. "The houses of the north and the rest of Westeros understand titles. It's not their way to have a man hold a keep without one. It's just not done. You've held titles among the free folk. I remember one of them calling you the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall and Husband to Bears. What's one more title?"

The crow king was right, of course. What was one more title when he already had so many? Still, the quiet in the room stretched out as Tormund contemplated the offer. It was important he didn't appear too eager to accept.

"I'm sure you could use some help with transitioning to the obligations of lordship," The Mother of Dragons said politely. "Are you married Tormund?"

He chuckled brightly, amused with the idea of what the kneelers considered wife material. "My wife died, then I took up with a bear," he replied.

"Then maybe taking a wife from a noble house may help," Daenerys suggested.

"My people have a fearsome reputation to uphold," Tormund pointed out. "I would need a fearsome lady by my side to keep my people together while the snow falls."

"Who did you have in mind?" The silver haired monarch asked.

Tormund smiled broadly. So this was how he would trap his warrior lady. Not with a kidnapping or a rough wooing, but by trading with the Mother of Dragons. Could it really be so simple? The free folk would baulk at taking a spouse by force, opting for a knife to the gut or a hammer to the skull over being attached to someone they didn't want. But kneelers were different. They had strange customs. Maybe he could bend this advantage.

"Brianne of Tarth," Tormund grinned, relishing the thought of his blonde lady attempting to throttle him with her clever hands, only to have her on her back gasping and moaning over the tongue and fingers pleasuring her ample body. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.

The queen nodded, no looks of surprise or hesitation on her face. "I will speak with the lady and correspond with her father directly. I think she's an excellent choice. Given what Lady Sansa has told me about Lady Brianne, her father will be overjoyed to have such a proposal."

"The lady, on the other hand, may have a different opinion." Jon's voice was neutral, he adopted the tone when he was trying to keep all the cycling politics spinning at the same time. "She should have a say in which man she marries. No stealing, Tormund."

"Stealing is the way of my people," Tormund chided the king.

"She may want to be married in a sept or at the heart tree in front of the Old Gods." The king was certainly placing more demands on the agreement. When Tormund huffed and rolled his eyes, the King in the North threw in a compromise. "You can steal her after the ceremony in lieu of a feast."

As far as deals went, it wasn't a bad one. Tormund stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I want to marry her before my people move to their new land."

"Two months, no later," the queen agreed. "I know everyone would feel better to be surrounded by their own fires by then."

"Done," Tormund agreed. "The Old Gods will hear our words at your heart tree. I want them to see what she'll be in good hands with me. After all, they were the ones who placed her down upon the earth."

XxX

There were smiles from everyone at Tormund's words. When the bargain had been struck, Jon moved his attention to his youngest cousin.

"Bran, you said you don't want to be Lord of Winterfell. Sansa and I reluctantly agreed to let you step aside, but now I feel I must ask something of you in return."

The youngest lord was used to bad news, Jon thought. Why couldn't he come up with the words when his family needed them the most?

"What do you need, Jon?" Bran replied. His time as the Three Eyed Raven had made him accustomed to being asked to perform deeds or experience visions he didn't necessarily wish to do.

"Howland Reed advised me to place more men at the Neck. There's not a war on right now, but it's better to have able men at the ready to keep eyes and ears open to who's coming and going through there come spring. Moat Cailin is a strategic point which has been long neglected. Since you will not take up your seat at Winterfell, I would ask you take up stewardship of Moat Cailin for House Stark."

"Moat Cailin is a ruin," Bran reminded his cousin. "It hasn't been manned in centuries."

"If it had been ready during the War of the Five Kings, Robb would have had the men he needed to protect the north from the Ironborne. Winterfell wouldn't have burned, and House Bolton wouldn't have held a position of power. By keeping a garrison and hall at the Neck, Winterfell and all the houses of the North will be less vulnerable."

"None of the towers are habitable." The young Stark noted. All the years Bran spent under Maester Luwin's tutelage seemed to be resurfacing. "We'd need a hall, out buildings, all of it. It would be expensive. How will we pay for this when all of us will be barely scraping by this winter?"

"The crown of Westeros will pay for it," Queen Daenerys belayed the concerns creeping into the conversation. "The country owes you a great debt, Brandon Stark. Without you, we would not have come together to do battle against the Long Night. Without your army of animals, we would have been blind to all that lurked in the winter winds. And without your visions, I would not have found my family."

"I'm the Three Eyed Raven now," Bran pointed out. "The burden of the gift is mine to share when the necessity arises. I didn't do it to seek fame or reward."

"But you'll have it regardless," The Dragon Queen stated gently.

"Moat Cailin belongs to House Stark," Jon nodded. "It's not the same as having your own keep, but you'd be doing the North a great service by scouting for armies from the air with your birds. No rider could be faster than a raven sent from Moat Cailin. And you'd be helping the small folk too, helping with petitions and distributing food and supplies to them that need it. They won't have to travel to Winterfell to receive justice."

When silence swept the room Jon shot a glance at his aunt. They'd been so confident during their long journey south that Bran would jump at the chance to have his own home, a place where he could put his gifts to good use and still retain his privacy. The last thing Bran wanted was to be sought out by the powerful or the desperate, as was often the lot of a woods witch or fortune teller.

"Why did Lord Reed ask you about Moat Cailin?" Bran said after a few moments.

"He wants to join our houses," Jon said simply. "He asked if I would consider you as a match for his daughter." All at once, the energy in the room changed.

"Lord Reed wants to join our houses?" Bran seemed to have difficulty forming words.

"Meera is his only child and heir," Jon explained. "She needs to be married and have a family of her own soon. Since the two of you are so close, it seemed like a natural choice. Meera would be close to her home, and able to help her father should he need it. Lord Howland and Meera both want to know if you would be willing to give your first born babe the Reed name to allow the family line to continue."

"I can't guarantee I will be able to sire children." The words fell flatly out of Bran's mouth. It must have been painful to say, but the Stark habit of being straightforward shone through.

"They're both aware of that. Lord Reed suggested trial marriage of five years. If there are no children, I'll dissolve it and give Meera her freedom to marry again. The choice is yours, Bran."

It was harsh, but fair. Jon could see the cogs in Bran's head turning. To have someone you care for by your side, call her wife, and risk watching her walk away later was a grim prospect. Bran's visions rarely foretold the future. Maybe that was a blessing. It made the young Stark lord the ability to make his own choices, just like any other man. Bran needed that normality in his life.

"Tell Lord Reed, I accept his proposal." Bran said confidently. "Would he prefer we marry now or after Moat Cailin has been rebuilt?"

"He's left that to Meera. She's waiting just outside for you. Why don't you ask her?"

Bran needed no further prodding. Nodding his head to the sovereigns, he carefully wheeled his chair to the door, pulled the doorlatch, and found Meera Reed leaning somewhat anxiously against the opposite wall of the corridor. The two of them didn't say much at first, Bran navigated his chair through the door and sat before Meera for a moment, taking in the immensity of his next words.

"Will you come to the godswood with me?" Bran asked. "There's something I want to ask you."

Meera smiled broadly. Bran returned her happy expression. Jon watched the two of them make their way through the corridor. His heart lighter in his chest, the King in the North sat back in his chair, feeling that all the burdens and troubles of kingship were justified if they kept his people safe, warfare at bay, and good people free to live their lives.

Even the Three Eyed Raven deserved a chance to truly live.

XxX

The night Carys Baratheon was born, a snowstorm blanketed Winterfell with a fresh layer of white. The howls of the babe match those generated by the fierce winds outside. Her mother suffered through two consecutive days of labor with nary a raised voice. There was sweat, pain, and more than a few grunts, but it was the quietest birth the maester could recall attending. The little girl slid into the maester's waiting hands, naked, bloody, and squalling indignantly. She was a small babe, overly red and sporting downy black hair. It was her father who calmed her cries, bouncing her in his strong arms and soothing her from the trauma of birth. Her exhausted mother tried to get the baby to nurse, but Carys wouldn't latch until her father sat behind her mother, held them both in his arms, and stroked her pink little cheeks. Enticed by his actions, Carys rooted and nursed contently until she fell asleep.

It was the way of things, Arya thought later. She was the one to carry a babe, endure the pain and worry of childbirth, only to see her newborn find comfort in the attentions of her husband.

It was ironic, but it didn't make the sting of it hurt less.

The next morning was better. The bells rang in Winterfell, signaling the birth of a healthy babe. Arya almost accepted the offer of a wet nurse, but she couldn't refuse the happy look on Gendry's face when he brought their daughter to their bed for the first time, their precious girl crying in hunger, and read the absolute joy in her husband's expression. He loved watching her nurse their daughter. He couldn't get enough of holding their baby in his arms, kissing her little cheeks, and showering Carys with love and affection.

The instant love Sansa seemed to have for her newborn son seemed to skip Arya completely. Carys was a little more than a stranger in Arya's arms for the first two weeks. She was cute, and it felt good to nurse her, but the whole experience was rather overwhelming. It wasn't until Meera Reed knocked on her door to visit the babe did Arya's mood begin to change.

Meera had wed Bran just two months prior to Carys' birth, and the pressure to produce an heir as quickly as possible weighed heavily on her goodsister's mind. Arya and Meera were not the type of people to share their concerns or thoughts easily with others, but in their friendship born in warfare, Meera broke her thoughts down first.

Staring down at Carys in her arms, Meera looked adoringly at the features of the sleeping babe. "It's not that Bran can't perform," Meera said with reluctance. "Making sure he, _explodes_ , seems to be the thing. We've tried fumbling along well enough, but he can't feel much of anything below the waist. He was ashamed of disappointing me. Bran always tries so hard, but we can't seem to find a consistency, if you know what I mean."

Arya nodded, happy to escape her own troubles to solve someone else's. "What are you going to do?"

"I went to some of the free folk for advice. The women had more suggestions than I could keep up with. I was blushing by end of the first one. I don't know how I sat through the half dozen more. I was tempted to ask Tormund Giantsbane to check up on Bran, but one of the women said she'd pass the request along. Five years seems like a long time, but it's not. If we could just have a baby, we can stay together. And we'll need to have a few more just in case."

 _Just in case I lose them the way I lost my brother._

Arya could hear the words loud and clear. It took another round of idle chit chat for Arya to share her own difficulties. Motherhood was overwhelming, the constant care, feedings, and the absence of sparring in the tilt yard had put Arya out of her element.

"I feel like I'm little more than a slumbering milk pail," Arya huffed. "The maester won't let me out of bed at all. Gendry's insistent I stay here as well. I'm going out of my mind. If it weren't for Oona and the occasional visitor, I'd wrap Carys up in a cloak and break out of here."

Meera listened thoughtfully, patiently rocking Carys in her arms while Arya unburdened her mind. "Where would you go?" Meera asked.

"Dunno," Arya huffed again. "Somewhere nearby where I can breathe again."

At the end, Meera didn't have any profound advice, other than to get to know the baby a little more each day. "And if you don't feel like staying abed, then don't. Take her for a walk. Just make sure she's warm enough and visit Gendry at the forge. Leave her with Oona for a few hours and go spar. She's a half-wolf born in the north. Winter runs in her veins. It's time for Carys to see you at your best; schooling some poor sod in the tilt yard."

That made Arya smile. She felt better when Meera left. It was strange how sharing words with the right people made life better. Arya took it for granted with Gendry. They spent some of their youth together, learning to trust each other when their situations were dire. When they married, that foundation of togetherness was already there. How different life was when you had more people crowding into it.

The next day, Arya rose from her bed, broke her fast, and bundled up Carys with Oona's help. Together, Arya walked her daughter slowly around the outbuildings of Winterfell, and toward the heart tree in the godswood. The sacred pool, the ancient tree, and the familiar rock seat were all waiting for her. There was always a sense of timelessness to the place. When she began walking to the rock, Arya remembered seeing her father sitting in his usual spot between the pond and the tree. She closed her eyes, and planted her feet on the ground. She could see Eddard Stark as he was in her childhood, cleaning his sword contemplatively, then smiling gently at her as she approached.

 _I was wondering when you'd come here._

Arya opened her eyes. The godswood was still the same but she could feel that connection to the past now. She took her father's usual spot beside the heart tree, and adjusted Carys' bundle. The baby was awake, looking at her mother intently. In the pale winter light, those little eyes looked like hers – blue, deep, and watchful. Words poured from Arya's lips before she knew what she was doing.

"There once was a little girl who lived in a castle in the north. Her father was the head of a great house, and he and his wife had five children."

With each word, Arya conjured images of the past. Faces sitting around tables. Children running through the woods. The gentle gaze of a mother. The strong arms of her father.

" _You ran away from your lessons," Ned said gently. "You're too old to be running off like that."_

" _It was too nice outside today," The younger Arya protested. "There was too much to do."_

" _And what would that be?"_

" _Sword fighting with Bran," Arya responded quickly. "We were fighting the Night King and Queen at a battle at the Wall. We managed to kill the queen and were almost about to slay the Night King when Jon found us."_

Arya could feel Eddard Stark standing right beside her now, his love so tangible it wrapped around her like the warmest of blankets.

" _A blade with a name. And who were you hoping to skewer with Needle? Your sister? Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?"_

" _Sitck 'em with the pointy end."_

 _Her father laughed. He had a wonderful laugh. "That's the essence of it."_

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her father had saved her life, let her be herself, and raised her with love. Arya felt that love flow through her senses, and when she looked down at Carys again, it was with different eyes.

"You will swing a sword, shoot a bow, and ride a horse," she told Carys. "You will travel, and see the world. Not just Westeros, but beyond. You will marry a man worthy of you, if you choose to marry at all. Winterfell runs in your veins, and no matter where you are, where you go, and what you do, I am your mother. I will always protect you."

 _Sweet girl._

Arya could hear her father's voice through the silence of the godswood.

Carys accepted Arya's tears without judgement, and gazed at her mother with quiet strength. "Sweet girl," Arya said as she kissed the baby. "My sweet girl."

The imprint of Eddard Stark still lingered. The ancient heart tree, with its connection to the Old Gods seemed to give Arya Stark the time with her father she had so desperately needed. When Arya stopped crying, she gave thanks in a long list which made her knees go numb before she was finished. As she left the grove, Arya kissed and nuzzled the babe again, just as her father had in the memory from so many years ago.

A wind glided up and around the new mother and her babe, before releasing into the russet leaves hanging above, and the ancient heart tree in the godswood went back to sleep.

XxX

Winter lasted five years. Some would claim it was the priestesses from the Lord of Light which broke the final curse of winter. Other would say it was the four dragons in Dragonstone which had lifted the snows.

Either way, the Arya Stark was leaving her home in Winterfell for the long journey south. She and her husband had packed their belongings, acquired a nurse for Carys and were saying their goodbyes to her family.

"Are you sure you want to go?" Sansa asked her sister for the seemingly hundredth time. "It's only a thaw, and not quite spring. It could be a false spring."

Arya shook her head. "We need to get to Storm's End. There's so much to do. Gendry's apprentices want to begin working again and we need to make sure the farmers have enough seed for their first crops. The land there is still in disarray, and without us the smallfolk will suffer."

The smallfolk would need the income generated by the sale of Valerian steel swords Gendry planned to sell in order to refill the coffers of Storm's End. Within a few years, they should have enough swords made, sold, and exported to ensure to the safety and security of the Stormlands. There was so much to buy for a land that had experienced so much loss and destruction. It was time for the stag lord and his she-wolf wife to help in the rebuilding of the realm.

"This will always be your home, you know. You can come back anytime you want." Sansa offer, her Tully blue eyes shining with a few tears.

"We'll come when we can, when Carys is older and it's safe to travel by road." Arya promised. "And you should come south too. Maybe when Jon goes down to Dragonstone, the two of you should come see us."

Arya hugged her sister, giving her pregnant belly a warm pat before bidding her nephews farewell. Robb looked thoughtful as she pulled him into her arms. Arya was hesitant to part with him, as Robb and Carys ran wild through the woods together in their own little pack. If they waited to depart any longer, the separation between the two cousins would be too hard to bear. Three-year-old Ned received a hug and a kiss, while his baby brother Aemon gave her a toothy smile. Oona held the sturdy toddler in her arms, letting him drool contentedly on her dress.

Ensconced in her father's arms, Carys kissed a doting Lady Olenna on the cheek. The older woman was a popular fixture in Winterfell, and the children adored her. Her stories were the ones Robb and Carys begged for, and Lady Olenna was indulgent in telling tales from the southern lands of long ago. Gendry was smiling as the matriarch wished him a safe journey and list of sound advice about traveling with children.

It was when Arya embraced her younger brother Bran that she began to have second thoughts about leaving. All of her surviving siblings were together. They'd been safe and happy with their growing families in Winterfell. What if she was making the wrong decision by leaving before spring?

"Don't doubt yourself, it's not going to make it easier," Bran could read her emotions plainly. He and Meera were getting ready to leave for Moat Cailin later in the year as well. They couldn't venture out until Meera delivered their second babe. Poor Meera was experiencing the worst bout of sickness common to women in the first stages of pregnancy. She'd had few problems when she carried little Arra Reed, but Oona said sickness sometimes signaled the coming of a boy. Only time would tell.

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives," Arya reminded her brother, still hesitant to leave her family behind.

"You have a pack of your own," Bran pointed out. "A husband and a daughter. Your pack may be small, but it's fierce."

Arya smiled at that, her gaze turning to Jon as he held Carys up in the air, both of them grinning madly at each other. It was a scene Arya never grew tired of seeing. Jon reminded her so much of father, it took her breath away at times.

"You should stop taking moon tea," Her brother intoned quietly. There was a heaviness in his voice he only used when he was speaking of things he'd seen in his visions.

"The last time you said that I was already with child." Arya snorted. Her daughter was created in the darkest of winter in a place far away from the rest of the world. Arya hadn't been thinking of motherhood when she and her husband coupled together in a dark area of his forge.

"The moon tea is poisoning you, I've seen it." Bran continued, his voice a warning. "If you keep taking it, your body won't be able to conceive. Let your children be born, Arya. You were always meant to have them."

Biting the inside of her cheek, Arya hugged her little brother again. It was an awkward hug, as it always was when he was in his chair, but she stooped low enough to press him close.

"I don't want it to be-"

"Like the last time?" Bran finished. "You did exactly what you needed to do. Every birth is different. Every babe is different. If you need us, Meera and I will travel as fast as we can to get to you. You, and Gendry, and Carys. There's nothing we wouldn't do to help you."

Even if the something was helping her through a bout of melancholy madness after giving birth to a babe, Arya thought. Her depression had been the reason she kept taking moon tea for as long as she had. Looking at the happy smile on her daughter's face, Arya didn't want to be anything but her best for Carys and Gendry.

Arya released her brother, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She continued her goodbyes, and after one last embraced from Jon, mounted her horse. They were taking the road to White Harbor, and a ship to the south. Gendry and Carys shared a steed, the two of them looking forward to the long journey to Storm's End. It was sad to leave Winterfell, but the road to her family's new keep was waiting for them.

More children. Gods be good. What would happen?

Taking Bran's warning to heart, Arya called Oona over for one last time. Reaching into her side bag, Arya handed the bag of moon tea into Oona's weathered hand.

"Don't think I'll be needing this anymore." Arya said lightly Oona's eyes widened. "See that someone gets it who needs it."

"Won't be your sister, that's for sure." Oona drawled. "But I may know a few girls who do."

Arya nodded her thanks and with a last wave goodbye to her family, their little company left for White Harbor. When she came to the top of the hill, Arya looked back at Winterfell. It didn't look as it did when she left for King's Landing so many years ago. How could she have known she wouldn't return for years, or even resemble the same child she'd been?

The godwood with its enormous heart tree stood just as it probably did for centuries. It had been her comfort these five years, to bring her sword to her father's spot and just think. Carys and Robb ran wild through the trees, filling the forest with happy laughter. Soon little Ned, Aemon, and the other Stark children would do the same. They'd see the new blooms, the green grass, and experience the same golden sunshine of her own youth.

The Starks of Winterfell would endure. Their growing pack would thrive.

Arya led her horse in to a trot, and took a spot next to her husband.

"Do you think Storm's End has a godswood?" Arya asked nonchalantly, not wanting to appear too keen to change a place she hadn't seen yet.

"I dunno," Gendry replied, making sure Carys wasn't leaning too far out of his arms. "Do you want one?"

Arya nodded. "Yes, I do." It wouldn't be the same thing as home, but it would still be a wild place with green growing things. Her children would be able to find her there, cleaning her sword and clearing her head. They'd walk out of the woods together, just as she and her father had done long ago.

"We'll make a godswood then, if it doesn't already have one. Maybe we can get a weirwood tree from the Isle of Faces. Don't know how we'd get it back, but we'll think of something. Starks don't do well away from their heart trees, and it's always good to have the old gods close by. Just in case."

"Just in case," Arya repeated. It was so like Gendry to sum up what she was thinking in his own direct way. With a lighter heart, the She-Wolf of Winterfell left the north once again. This time, she had her own pack, a cause to call her own, and a husband by her side.

It was time for House Baratheon to grow and thrive again.

XxX

In the blush of late spring, a chest bearing the proud stag of House Baratheon and the fierce direwolf of House Stark was delivered to the temple of the Many-Faced God in Braavos. It was placed on the steps of the temple, with a messenger instructed to stay with the chest until it had been acknowledged in person.

The messenger knocked on the door. A gray robed man answered. Without a word, the messenger handed the acolyte a sealed letter and left.

The man who occasionally wore the face of Jaqen H'ghar opened the chest to find a sizeable collection of silver moons and gold dragons. Breaking the direwolf seal of the letter, the man read the contents of the letter. A small smile of pride ghosted his handsome face.

 _Houses Stark and Baratheon gift this chest to the House of Black and White as a token of gratitude and esteem. May its contents outbid all those who would wish a name from our houses to be offered up to the Many Faced God._

 _Vallar mogolais._

 _Arya Stark of Winterfell_

 _Lady of Storm's End_

XxX

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